


The Haunting of Refuge Prison

by ArtemisRayne



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Bittersweet, Character Death, Dark, Gen, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Haunting, Horror, M/M, Murder, Reincarnation, Torture, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-07 22:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16417508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisRayne/pseuds/ArtemisRayne
Summary: Everyone knows the dark story behind the haunted Refuge Juvenile Home, the fire set by an inmate that killed so many. The ghost-hunting team ofBeyond Beliefonly think about how it'll make the perfect season finale episode. David Jacobs doesn't believe in the supernatural, but his role as team skeptic is tested when he makes a strange connection with a ghost inside Refuge; the ghost of a young boy named Jack that seems intent on telling him something.The reality of what happened at the Refuge is so much darker than what appeared in the newspapers, and David chases glimpses of the past through his connection to the ghost. As the team gets dragged further and further into the mystery behind the haunted juvenile prison, the story only gets more dangerous. Soon enough, it's lives at stake in the race to discover the truth.Can David find out what really happened Halloween night of 1899 before the Refuge claims their lives as well?





	The Haunting of Refuge Prison

**Author's Note:**

> "I should write one" = famous last words. 
> 
> I was feeling the Halloween spirit and thinking that it was a shame there weren't much in the way of supernatural/horror stories in this fandom, and they always say if what you want to read doesn't exist, you should just write it yourself. Right? 
> 
> I should've known better. My ADHD muse decided to take what started as a short, slightly silly ghost story and turn it into a colossal, sprawling, overly-complex horror novella. 
> 
> TW: SO MANY TRIGGERS! Seriously, guys, this thing turned out DARK. There's a vague summary of triggers in the tags. Full list of triggers in the endnotes so I don't spoil anything, although the large majority of the actual bad stuff (excepting the climax) occurs off-screen and is only referenced.

David Jacobs stares up at the blackened husk of a building in front of him and takes a moment to wonder how his life has come to this. When he was a little kid, he had all these grand dreams of becoming a world-famous investigative journalist. David was going to travel the globe and unearth all its secrets; be at the scene of political movements and wars and progress, elbows deep in the most significant events of their lifetime. David believed he was going to write stories that would change the world.

The job market, however, had other plans for him. There are only so many reporting jobs to go around, and a surplus of people vying for the spots. Every good reporter has to start somewhere. For David, "somewhere" just so happens to be the paranormal investigations show _Beyond Belief_.

"Hey, Dave, you planning on helpin' or you just gonna stand there and look broody? 'Cause if so, at least let me get some decent pics for your fangirls."

David hitches his bag higher on his shoulder and glances sideways. The crew cameraman, Tony Higgins, is a wiry blonde with an overabundance of sarcasm. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear, a regular accessory despite his constant claims that he's going to quit. Excepting his sometimes overbearing personality, David actually likes Tony a lot - at least in the moments when he doesn't want to punch him.

"I'm going," David says, picking up the case of gear by his feet. He knows the show runs on a tight schedule, and while it might not be his dream job, it doesn't stop him from putting in his best work. Besides, he knows better than anyone not to piss off the boss.

"Good, 'cause the longer we stand around out here, more likely we gonna get the cops called on us," Tony says with a huff of laughter. David grimaces. Places with dark histories don't always have the most accommodating owners, not that it's ever stopped the crew from chasing the stories anyway. They've adopted a 'better to ask forgiveness than permission' mentality about the subject.

Of course, as David takes his first steps onto the property, he sort of wishes someone _would_ come and stop them. He's the team skeptic, the rational voice among all the believers, but even he can feel something different about this place. It sends a chill up his spine, like the echoes of long-dead evil are still clinging to the smoke-stained bricks. They've visited a lot of "haunted" places in the two years since David joined the team, but this is the first one to actually scare him a little.

"Dave?" Tony prompts, nudging him with an elbow.

"Hmm? Oh, sorry, I'm going," David says, shaking his head and picking up his pace again. "Just - this place is creepy."

Tony snorts. "That's kinda part of the job description," he teases, falling into step as they head around the side of the building toward the rear door the crew pried open. Tony shifts the camera case to his other hand, considering the boarded-up windows and discolored brick thoughtfully. "But I know whatcha mean. There's just _something_. Gives me the jeebies."

Somehow knowing he's not the only one doesn't ease David's nerves. Shrugging off the sudden weight of dread sitting in his chest, David steps through the door into the back hall. He follows the sound of voices to the front foyer where the rest of the crew is busy setting up their temporary base of operations.

Box lights sit in every corner of the open space, illuminating the peeling wallpaper and warped floorboards. A bank of monitors are lined up against a wall which will display all of the camera-feeds once they've been set up, and their sound tech, Elmer, is testing all of the mics and headsets with the help of their lead producer-slash-editor, Kat. Ryan is nowhere to be seen, presumably out running his regular preliminary scans of the building, so they have a baseline to test against later. And in the center of it all, directing everything like the conductor of an orchestra, is Sarah.

When people first meet Sarah, she comes across as all casual grace and easy smiles, a picture of feminine composure and intellect. So it predictably surprised a lot of people when she dropped out of university in her last year to star in and direct a glorified ghost-hunting show with some friends. A lot of people except David, of course; he's been telling people that his innocent-looking twin sister is a wild card since he first learned to talk.

"Oh, good, there you are!" Sarah says as soon as they step into the room. "Tony, can you help Elms get the last of the remote cams set? And Dave, go over your notes and get mic'd up. I wanna film a walkthrough of the place with you and get our history rundown out of the way as soon as possible. Gotta be ready for the real fun once the sun goes down."

David passes the case of equipment off to Elmer and then claims space at a table they've set up below a light to review his notes. With a double major in journalism and history, David's main role on _Beyond Belief_ , apart from being the token skeptic, is as head of research. Whenever they get a request or a tip about a place, David is the one who digs through decades of information to find out whether it's a hoax or if there might actually be a story there. He's strangely suited for the job, really, and discovering long-forgotten tales behind the supposedly haunted locations is far more satisfying than he ever expected when he finally broke down and accepted Sarah's offer of a job.

Opening his laptop, David clicks into the folder for this case and is immediately met with the newspaper article that started this whole thing. It's a photocopy, printed off an ancient microfilm machine at the city archives, and the erosion of time is visible in the yellowed paper. Most of the front page of _The New York World_ for this date - 1 November 1899 - is dominated by a black-and-white photo of the very building David's sitting in, smoke still curling from barred windows. Above that, the bolded headline and subtitle are eye-catching, to say the least.

_**Hallow's Eve Arson at Juvenile Prison;** _

_**Fire Claims Seven, Including Warden** _

David's stomach turns over as he double-checks over the details he's already committed to memory. Halloween night, 1899, one of the juvenile inmates snapped, locked himself and the warden in his office, and set the room afire. They both burnt alive, along with a handful of other kids who couldn't escape the inferno caused by the old building materials. It's the sort of graphic, horrific story they see all the time in this line of work - after all, places hardly become "haunted" from happy endings - but it still makes David's skin crawl to think of such brutal deaths, especially for kids.

Or maybe he's just projecting because of the strange chill that's settled into his bones.

A hand on his shoulder makes David nearly jump out of his skin, and Kat immediately stammers out an apology. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," the pretty redhead rambles, holding her hands out in surrender. "I thought you heard me. I was just going to get you mic'd."

"No, sorry, you're fine," David says, forcing himself to take a steadying breath. He glances at the mic set in her hand and flushes slightly. "Right, yeah, thanks. Sorry, I was just up in my head, I guess."

Kat's nimble fingers thread the mic cable down below his shirt and use tiny pieces of adhesive to tape it to his skin. As David tucks the earpiece into place, she connects the cable to the wireless transmitter, and there's a flare of static in his ear. "Elms, read me?" David asks.

From the other side of the room, Elmer checks the screen and then holds a thumbs-up in the air. "All good, bro."

Kat slips the battery pack into his back pocket and pats his shoulder. "Okay, you're all set," she says. When her hand doesn't leave his bicep, David glances sideways at her curiously. "You okay, Dave?"

"Fine, why?" David responds, frowning.

"I don't know, you just seem _off_ ," Kat says. She bites her lip and shrugs, letting her hand slip away. "Maybe it's just this place, it's giving me all kinds of vibes. And for some reason, they seem to be focused on you."

David gives the woman a critical look. Kat Plumber is an odd one; while she doesn't claim to be a medium or anything so concrete, she says that she gets brushes from the other side. David doesn't believe that she really has some connection to a mythical spirit realm, but he can't deny that more than once, her hunches have led them to some secret about the sites they investigate. It's more likely some acute sense of intuition, but it's reasonably reliable.

And with the strange shiver still humming under his skin, David finds himself giving her vibes a little extra credence this time. "This place weirds me out," he admits quietly. "It feels - _wrong_ , somehow. Different than other places we've been."

Kat's bright green eyes are solemn as she gazes down at him where he sits. "Be careful, okay?" she says, squeezing his arm.

"Dave, c'mon," Sarah calls, interrupting the moment. She's standing at the foot of the narrow staircase, Tony beside her with his camera in hand. "Let's go."

"Coming," David answers, standing, and then he glances back to Kat. She's released his arm, but there's a certain tension to the lines of her face that betrays how uneasy she still is. So David grips her shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring way and offers a small smile. "You be careful too. You know how Sarah worries when you get those headaches."

A pretty blush spreads across Kat's cheeks as she hastily glances away, giggling nervously. Their editor's crush on his sister is the world's worst-kept secret, perhaps second only to Sarah's incredibly unsubtle infatuation with Kat. Although they both deny it up and down, everyone knows it's there and are just waiting for the two to actually do something about it. Of course, as Tony pointed out, it's not like the awkwardly sweet subplot of _will-they-won't-they_ is hurting their viewership any.

Leaving Kat to get back to work, David jogs across the foyer to the stairs. "Okay, where we starting?"

* * *

When David first started at _Beyond Belief_ , his position was primarily a behind-the-scenes one. He made brief appearances on camera, like the other support crew, and he was always filmed a bit during pre-site briefings when he would get the others up to speed on the history. However, as time went by, the viewers ate up the back-and-forth banter between David and Sarah. The sibling rivalry, with the added fuel of the believer versus the skeptic, has boosted their ratings up and David's found himself gradually shifted into the role of reluctant co-star.

As with most things so far in his career, it's not the way David planned it, but he's adapting.

So he stands in the center of a large room that would once have been a lodging room of some sort and addresses the camera lens pointed at his face. "It's impossible to tell while looking around now, but these rooms were once filled with children," he says steadily. They've already done the straightforward history spiel back at the office, but on site, they've got room to get a little more dramatic in the retelling. "Established in the late 1800s, the Refuge Juvenile Home was a detention center for the delinquent and homeless children of New York City. It operated for nearly twenty-five years with the goal of homing and reforming children in need, to turn them into contributing members of society."

"Or at least that's the way they sold it in the brochures," Sarah interjects, stepping into frame. Tony immediately adjusts the camera to center them both, flashing a quick thumbs up for her to continue. "While some lauded the Refuge as a pillar of the community, others testified that it was a corrupt institution that preyed on the city's most vulnerable citizens. There are reports of abuse and neglect of the children from former residents, and many death certificates list this address, although the exact totals cannot be known since so many of the children were orphaned and their bodies unclaimed at the time of their deaths."

David nods, quickly picking up the thread when she lets it trail. "In the end, the reality behind the Refuge has gone unanswered for over a century. A gruesome tragedy resulted in the juvenile prison being closed permanently with no further statement from the government entities that previously managed it, and this building has stood, empty and unused, since that day."

"Ooh, that was good, I like it," Tony says after a pause, grinning. "Supes ominous."

Both Jacobs snort at the comment, exchanging amused and exasperated looks about their friend. "Let's move on to the warden's office," Sarah says, gesturing for them to follow. "We should shoot a bit about the fire from there. The burn damage will make for a great backdrop." Tony lowers the camera, turning to follow her lead, but David only makes it a step before his stomach suddenly lurches.

The world pinwheels in front of his eyes, a sickening rush of vertigo that makes him stumble. Colors flicker and shapes materialize from the shadows, indistinct towering forms staggered along the length of the room like sentinels. His ears ring with a clamor of sounds; coughing and wheezing, crying and sniffling, soothing whispers and piercing screams.

And then just as quickly as it started, the whole thing stops. David flails as he catches his balance, and he blinks in confusion. It takes him a second to note the hand on his chest, and he focuses on his sister's face only inches from his own, surprised. "Davey, you okay?" Sarah asks, brow furrowed.

The childhood nickname stirs a warmth in his chest, and David manages a smile for that much alone. She's the only person who's still allowed to call him that, and even she reserves it for certain times. "Yeah, sorry, I'm good," he says, shaking his head to clear it. "Got the spins for a sec."

"You sure?" Sarah presses and her lips are pursed in that way she picked up from their mother, although she'll undoubtedly slap him if he points that out.

"I'm sure," David insists, nodding. There's a faint throbbing in the back of his skull that's a familiar precursor to a migraine, something he's been getting somewhat regularly for the last year or so. He knows how to handle them by now, so there's no point worrying anyone. "Teach me to skip breakfast, huh?"

Tony snorts, and Sarah rolls her eyes, equal parts annoyed and fond. "Idiot," she mutters. "Okay, let's film that office shot, and then we'll get back to the others. Elmer was gonna grab dinner, and if he's not back yet, Kat's always got protein bars and stuff in her purse." David nods and falls into step with her, but he can't stop himself from casting a short glance back into the room as he leaves.

It remains hauntingly empty.

* * *

"Seriously, guys, these readings are completely off the fuckin' charts." Ryan Ballatt, their resident guru on all things paranormal tech, is rambling excitedly as he scans over the display on his laptop with one hand, the other gesticulating wildly with a slice of pizza. Sarah recoils and makes an indignant noise when the energetic motion sends a chunk of greasy cheese flying her direction. "Oops, sorry," Ryan says, although he doesn't sound it as he immediately turns his attention back to the screen. "For real, though, I haven't seen EMF like this since, I dunno, pro'lly that theatre in Boston."

"And it ain't even spookin' time yet," Tony interjects with a smirk. "Happy Halloween, homies." 

David scoffs, wiping pizza grease from his hands. Eating hasn't helped steady his nerves as much as he hoped it would. He hasn't gotten the spins again, but the pressure at the back of his skull hasn't softened, even with a dose of his migraine meds. It's making him jumpy, flinching at sounds and flickers at the edge of his vision. To make matters worse, no one else is reacting to them that he can tell, which makes him worry that he's having some sort of stress-induced breakdown.

"So what's y'all's theories?" Elmer asks curiously, looking up from the wireless mic he's repairing in his lap. "We buying the arson-by-inmate story?"

"I mean, that's what all the police reports said," David offers with a shrug. "And if the stories about the warden and guards abusing the kids are true, it would make sense that someone would snap eventually."

Tony scoffs. "Sure, snapping and lashing out is one thing. But torching the room while he's still _inside_? That's not crime of passion stuff; that's downright fucked up."

"Halloween night," Ryan says pointedly. David can't completely bite back his cynical noise, guessing where this train of thought goes. Sure enough, Ryan continues with, "Everyone knows that's the night barriers between worlds get taken down. Could be something evil got in and compelled him to do it."

"My biggest question is why this building even still exists?" says David, carding a hand through his hair. "This is New York City. No property stays vacant long. The city still owns the land, so why haven't they bulldozed this place and sold off the property or built something new? There's no logic to leaving this place untouched for over a hundred years."

"Unless someone's trying to hide something," Sarah says with that familiar spark of certainty, that quiet ferocity she gets when she knows they're on to something. For all the ways that David and Sarah are polar opposites, this is the one way they're most alike. Sarah must be thinking along the same lines because she casts a quick glance his way, sharing a mischievous smile.

Clicking the mic back together, Elmer makes a triumphant noise. "So what, we think some sort of government cover-up, and that's why the spirits haven't settled?" he asks.

"It's definitely something to do with the fire," Sarah agrees. "The only reports we've found of any activity or sounds from this place are always Halloween night. Silent all year long, but Halloween night, dozens of people have reported seeing faces or lights in the windows, hearing screams."

"And the one story from the nineties about the smoke," Kat adds. "The kids that came in on a dare, and could smell smoke, but none of them saw any fire. The one kid actually ended up getting treated for smoke inhalation, remember?"

David scrunches his nose. "The official diagnosis was an asthma attack," he reminds them. Sarah and Ryan both make dismissive noises. Before David can respond, a distant cracking sound makes him jump. "Did you hear that?" he asks, frowning as he looks over his shoulder into the darkened hallways.

"Hear what?" Tony asks. _Well, that answers that..._

"I dunno, it sounded sorta like a whip or something," David says. A chill runs down his spine as he turns back to the others, who are all watching him with wide eyes. "Seriously, none of you heard that?"

"Guys, we got action," Ryan interrupts, leaning in to look at the monitors. "Orbs in 2B."

As Sarah and Tony both jump to their feet, Elmer curses. "Fuck, and we just lost audio in half the first floor. Whole east side the building's gone down."

"I got it," David says, standing. "You guys go check upstairs, I'll fix the mics." Sarah nods and takes off with Tony on her heels, his camera already settled onto his shoulder and rolling. David catches the walkie-talkie that Elmer tosses his way and then heads toward the east hall.

"You hear me?" Elmer's voice crackles over the radio in his hand.

"Loud and clear," David responds. "Which rooms are down?"

"Make a right there ahead, it starts in that first door on the left," Elmer says, obviously watching David's progress through the cameras.

David follows his instructions and finds himself in a large, gray room. It's difficult to tell what any room is in this place, any furniture either stolen or reduced to debris a long time ago. It's doubtful that they would've housed inmates on the first floor, to prevent them from escaping, but even these windows are barred beneath the boards nailed over them. If David had to hazard a guess, he'd say this section of the building was probably for the guards; barracks and break rooms for those on duty.

He spots the camera and audio setup immediately, fastened to the wall just inside the door like usual. David leans in to check all the connections between them and spots the problem immediately. The cable that runs from the mic to the wireless transmitters is unplugged, dangling loose against the wall. "Huh, weird," he says, frowning as he slides the plug back into place.

"Audio back?" he asks aloud to the camera.

The radio in his hand chirps. "Room 1D is online," Elmer says. "Hello again, handsome." David snorts, rolling his eyes pointedly where he knows the camera will pick it up. "That was quick. What happened?"

"It was just unplugged," David admits, this time into the radio as he heads for the next room. "Must not've gotten plugged in properly when you set it up."

"That's not possible," Elmer says immediately. "I double-checked them all before I hung 'em."

"Well I'm telling you, that's what it was," David says. "The mic was unplugged, all I did was plug it back in." He slips into the next room, another bland expanse of musty brick and warped wood floors, and turns to the camera. "This one too," he says, and inserts the plug into the receiver.

"No way that's just a technical glitch," Ryan interrupts over the radio. "One mic, maybe, but _four_ , and all at the exact same time? Sarah, you guys got anything upstairs?"

"Nothing visible," Sarah says. "Camera's not picking anything up either, but I'm registering an energy spike in the room, for sure."

David plugs in the third microphone and scoffs to himself. Another static charge, undoubtedly. That's the way these things work. Nine times out of ten, they get worked up over something banal like a reflection of light or a stray electric current or a draft of wind. Nearly every single supernatural phenomenon can be explained through simple means.

Of course, as the others are constantly reminding him, they're not here for those nine times. They check every time so they can catch it the one time in ten it's something that _can't_ be explained.

Shaking his head, David steps into the last room and pauses. This room is smaller than the others, with no windows to let in even the muted glow of street lamps from outside. Pulling out his phone, David turns on the flashlight and shines it around the room curiously. This one is empty as well, the walls bare and the floor made of gray stone. There are two small, iron grates set into the ground, probably drains of some sort, and David shudders when the light passes over them; the stone around the grates is discolored a dull brown.  _Rust_ , he tells himself.  _It was probably a bathing room of some kind, and the rust from the drains dyed the stones, that's all._

"Dave, your light's fuckin' up the camera night-vision," Elmer says over the radio, shaking him out of his reverie.

"You want me to be able to see to fix your mics?" David replies, turning his attention to the camera mounted on the wall. Sure enough, it's a simple cable issue again. "Alright, on my way back," he announces into the radio.

Just as David makes to step out of the room, a cry from behind stops him short, and he spins on his heel. There, beneath the beam of his flashlight, is a crumpled figure sprawled across the stone floor. It's difficult to make out any features, his brain only providing impressions; stained fabric, sickly pale skin, matted dark hair, and blood, _so much blood_ , both dried and fresh, flaking off skin around a horrifying array of injuries. The body shifts, and the radio slips from David's slack grip when he meets their gaze. It's a teenage boy, young and scared beneath the dirt and bruises. Cracked lips part and the boy's honey-brown eyes widen, startled as they stare back at him.

Then David blinks, and the boy is gone.

"The fuck?" David hisses, stepping back into the room. He hurries over to the spot where the boy was just seconds ago, but there's nothing. No lingering body heat on the stones, no blood spatters on the ground even though the boy was covered in it. David runs his hand over the floor, shaking and breathless.

"Dave?" The radio, crackling to life where he dropped it on the floor, makes him start. "Dave, you okay?"

Scrambling over to the doorway, David snatches up the radio and keys in. "Please tell me you guys saw that?" He's already running when the others respond, the receiver screeching as they all try to talk over each other. David sprints back into the central room, where Ryan, Elmer, and Kat look up at him with alarm. "Roll back the footage," David demands, pointing to the camera banks. "That last room, roll it back. I want to see."

"What the hell happened?" Ryan asks, eyeing him uncertainly. David doesn't answer, crouching behind Elmer as the sound tech rewinds the recording to the point when David first steps into the room. They all watch with bated breath when he presses play.

The view is over David's shoulder, the green-tinged footage grainy through the night-vision lens. When David turns on his flashlight, it washes out the room into a blur of white. There's a buzz of static when the audio reconnects, the little red microphone icon in the corner of the screen turning green, and then David's voice, " _Alright, on my way back_."

The screen gets slightly clearer when he turns away from the camera, the light of the flashlight directed toward the doorway now, and David leans in to squint at the screen. He was there, _right there_ , any second now they'll hear the soft, pained yelp the boy made when he fell. Any second now...

The video gets blurry again as the light is aimed toward the middle of the room, bleaching everything white. There's a long, drawn moment in time, and then David's voice registers on the mic again, a scared, wobbly, " _The fuck_?"

"No, he was there," David says insistently, watching the screen as his past-self crosses to the middle of the room and crouches. "He was _right there_. I saw him."

"Who?" Sarah interrupts from the top of the stairs. She's half-stumbling down the steps in her haste, Tony moving only slightly slower behind her as he tries to keep the camera steady. "You saw someone?"

"There was a boy," says David. He feels unbalanced, quaking with adrenaline, and he sits down heavily before he can fall over. "I swear it, I _saw_ him, clear as day." Sarah's on her knees in front of him in the next instant, her expression tight and concerned as she reaches out to press the back of her wrist against his forehead, like a child with a fever. David huffs and bats her hand away impatiently. "I'm not sick, I really saw him."

"I believe you," she counters firmly. When David meets her eyes, she smiles wryly. "Of course I do. But you also look like you're gonna pass out on us. Not to put too fine a point on it, you look like you've seen a ghost."

David's laugh is half-hysterical, and he combs a hand back through his hair. "This is ridiculous," he murmurs, shaking his head. He's supposed to be the sensible one, the one who talks the rest of them down when they get worked up over nothing, and yet here he is, panting and dazed. He's the skeptic, but it's harder to be skeptical when it's his own eyes betraying him.

"What did you see, Davey?" Sarah asks gently. Her hand is warm and steadfast on his knee, her eyes understanding, and it eases some of his anxiety. This is Sarah. For all their differences, no one in the world knows him better.

"There was this boy," David starts, taking a breath to calm himself. "Teenager, seventeen or eighteen maybe? I heard this shout like someone had fallen, and when I turned around, he was just _there_." David forces himself to exhale again, wrapping his arms around his chest when he notices his hands are shaking. "He looked like he'd been beaten to hell and back. Blood and bruises everywhere. And it was the strangest thing, but I swear to God, he looked at me. Like _straight at me_. And then he was just gone."

"Jesus Christ, you realize what this is?" Ryan says excitedly. "This is legit. I mean, not just orbs and echoes, but a proper, bodied spirit? We got a real haunting."

"Did you not hear me?" David snaps, his pulse jumping. "He was just a fucking kid. He was _so young_ and he just-"

"Hey, hey," this is Kat, stopping him from rising with a hand on his shoulder. She crouches at his side and meets his eyes steadily. "That's not what he meant, Dave. We know these were just kids. But making contact means we can help them, remember?"

David deflates, embarrassment rushing in to take the place of his previous indignation. "Right, yeah, of course," he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. He doesn't even know why he feels so furious on this boy's behalf; why there's a leaden weight in his chest that feels an awful lot like failure; why he wants to protect this boy who likely doesn't even _exist_. Or even if he does exist, if there's truth to these ghost stories David's always doubted, then the boy is long dead. "Sorry," he adds in Ryan's direction. "I'm, uh, not used to this."

"No fuckin' kidding," Tony says from where he's still pointing the camera in their direction, and the blend of wonder and amusement in his voice shatters the apprehension in the room.

"Right, c'mon guys," Sarah says, standing up and waving them all off. "Back to work. We've got an active site here. Elms, I want you manning the cams, radio if you see _anything_. The rest of us are gonna scan for hot spots. Tony, you're with me, Kat with Ryan. Standard patterns, start high and work down. And remember to be careful; this place is old, and there's probably gonna be some structural damage, so watch your step." She pauses and meets David's eyes. "Help Elms get everything synced up again, then come join when you're done."

David recognizes the gesture for what it is, Sarah giving him an excuse to sit out, to be able to collect himself and calm his nerves before charging back into the fray. He both loves and hates her for the consideration; none of the others would get such a courtesy, but then again, none of the others would've reacted the way he did. "I'll be along in a minute," David agrees, trying to inject confidence that he doesn't feel into his voice.

As the rest of them grab their gear and set off up the stairs, David relocates to an empty chair beside Elmer at the line of monitors. "You gonna be okay?" the sound tech asks quietly, not looking up as his hands move across the sliders and keyboards. Giving a noncommittal noise, David leans in to reset the recording in that room, the video snapping forward to present time and showing the same vacant stones and discolored grates. "Don't worry, man, everyone gets spooked by their first ghost."

"I don't _believe_ in ghosts," David reminds him flatly, even as his heart hammers against his ribs at the memory of that boy's terrified, blood-streaked face.

* * *

"This is a very bad idea, Dave."

David flips open the viewfinder on the handheld camera, double-checking that the battery is fully charged, before he nods and straightens. "I'm not just going to sit here," he says to Elmer as he turns on his mic again. "I'm fine."

This is a lie, but Elmer doesn't need to know that. David is far from fine. The noises and flashes of color from earlier are back with a vengeance. No longer so distant and quiet, David keeps catching whimpers and hushed voices and screams, the dull thud of fists and the sharp report of open hands and the cutting crack of leather. While working at the monitors, David would swear he'd see a flicker of motion on a screen only to look and find the room empty.

That, more than anything, is what's compelling him to move; he can't just sit and wait when the need to know _why_ this is happening to him, to find answers, is burning under his skin like electricity.

"Okay, so you're fine," says Elmer, his tone clearly doubtful, "then go meet up with Sarah and Tony, not take off on your own."

"I've done this dozens of times now," David counters pointedly. "It's fine. There's a lot of ground to cover and only so many hours of the night to get it done." He turns his back, striding toward the staircase deliberately. Elmer's going to radio the others, he knows it, but David doesn't care. Sitting and listening to all the noise that only he can hear is driving him crazy.

Sure enough, David hasn't even reached the top of the stairs when the radio in his pocket crackles. "Guys, Dave's back in the game," Elmer says. Although he appreciates that Elmer tried to make it sound casual, David still shoots an annoyed look down over the railing at the sound tech. Elmer merely raises an unimpressed eyebrow in response.

David grabs his radio, aiming to cut the argument off before it can start. "I'm starting on floor two, working my way up. Meet you in the middle."

"The hell, Dave?" Sarah's voice is harsh and angry over the radio channel.

"I'm not having this fight with you," David says simply. "It's already almost midnight, and this's a big building. You want to spend the next few hours yelling at each other or do you wanna work?"

A long moment hovers, heavy with anticipation, and then the radio buzzes with static for a second. "We'll finish this conversation later," Sarah says, and her tone makes it very clear David's going to be on the receiving end of a good shouting when she gets the chance. "Kat and Ryan are up top, me and Tony started in the middle. You got the bottom few?"

"Copy that, boss," David replies and then returns the radio to his pocket.

Lifting the video camera in one hand, he holds out the EMF meter with the other and starts sweeping. It's simple, mind-numbing work, the sort of thing he's done over and over since joining the crew. He walks slowly and steadily down the hall, listening for any change in the frequencies and keeping one eye on the camcorder's viewfinder for any activity.

His brain is still firmly rejecting the existence of ghosts, but it's a lot harder not to believe in this stuff with his ears still full of the disembodied whispers.

The second floor is comprised mostly of what would've been the lodging rooms for the inmates. These windows are set high, the cement cracking around the bars that remain, and the few doors that are still on their hinges bear thick iron deadbolts. On this side of the building, the rooms are less fire-damaged than the one he was in earlier, although the stained and splintering wood is showing distinct corrosion from time and neglect.

David checks the first three rooms to no avail, but as he moves down the next hall toward a fourth door, the EMF meter in his hand suddenly clicks loudly. Startled, David pauses and glances down. The readings show that the charges have picked up a few volts. He takes an experimental step forward, and the charge jumps again. Heart racing, he quickens his pace and the EMF climbs with every step toward the doorway until he passes through the frame.

It hits him like this afternoon, that sudden lurch and dizziness as the world blurs in front of him. This time, though, the distorted colors and shapes don't fade as soon as they come. Amid a ripple of hushed voices and quiet crying, an image starts to form; a long bunkroom lined with rickety beds, the gray shadows of bodies wedged onto narrow mattresses, illuminated by the dancing flickers of wax candles staggered at random around the room. It's still not clear, vision sliding in and out of focus like he's drunk, but David gapes around in wonder.

A door bursts open exactly where David's standing and he stumbles in his haste to get out of the way; not that it matters because the door passes through him like nothing. Two large men step into the room dragging a limp body between them. David watches as they toss the figure carelessly onto the floor, where it lands with a weak groan. "Sweet dreams," one man sneers derisively.

"Awh, didn' know ya cared," the body on the floor drawls, voice thick and slurred but somehow still distinctly mocking. The second guard kicks the body in the stomach, and the force throws it onto its back. David's stomach turns over when he recognizes the same boy from before, although his cheeks are hollower and his skin is slightly gray where it's not bruised and bloodied. " _Ungh_ , makes a fella feel real special."

"You never learn, do ya?" the first guard says and drives a boot into the boy's hip, making him choke on a moan. With that, the guards leave and slam the door behind them.

"Jacky?" The voice from farther in the room is tremulous, such an agonizing blend of fear and hope that it guts David straight through.

On the floor, the boy's eyes snap open, a sudden wild light in them as he struggles to move even though he's clearly in a lot of pain. He rolls onto his side and lifts his head, squinting into the room. "Crutchie?" he asks, voice barely more than a whisper.

A figure slides gracelessly from the shadows of one of the upper bunks, falling to the ground before they drag themselves upright again. It's another young boy, gaunt and ashen beneath a mop of dirty blonde hair, although this one is mercifully not coated in blood. He seems to be using the frames of the bunk beds for support as he limps closer, one leg twisted up beneath him to the point he can't put any weight on it, his foot dragging awkwardly under him. The boy doesn't seem to care about this as he crosses the room until he finally collapses and crawls the last few feet toward the bloodied boy. "Jack, s'really you?"

And the brunet boy miraculously manages to shape his pale lips into a small smile as he looks up at the other. "One an' on'y."

The younger boy lets out a choking sob, his own mouth sketching an echo of a smile. He reaches out like he wants to touch but freezes, clearly afraid of injuring him worse. "Christ, Jack, ya look worse 'an hell."

A surprised laugh turns instantly into a groan, and the boy named Jack curls on his side, clutching his ribs. " _Ugh_ , missed ya too, pal," he mumbles once he's breathing regularly again. "Help me up?"

The younger boy huffs a laugh, shaking his tangled hair out of his eyes. "Keep ya shirt on," he says. "Getcha breath a sec." Sitting up and using his hands to drag his crippled leg into position, the blonde carefully lifts Jack's head into his lap. He tugs the sleeve of his ratty shirt down over one hand and starts to wipe the wet blood from Jack's face gently. "Been months. The fellas said ya took off," he says, voice breaking. "Thought ya was in Santa Fe all 'is time."

"An' leave ya 'hind?" Jack says, scornfully. The arm not wrapped around his ribs shifts, reaching up shakily to grab the hand that's so tenderly cleaning his face. "Not a chance, Crutch."

" _David!_ "

The yell jerks him back, David's head spinning as the lodging room fades into empty shadows. He falls back against the wall before his legs give out and he slides down to the floor. There's a sharp throbbing behind his eyes, and he gasps for breath like he just ran a marathon. The radio crackles in his pocket again, this time Elmer's voice saying, "He just collapsed."

Hands shaking, David fumbles for the radio and lifts it. "M'okay," he wheezes. "S'okay, I'm okay."

"The _fuck_ you're okay," Sarah snarls back through the radio. Through the ringing in his ears, David can hear the sound of pounding footsteps drawing closer. "Stay where you are, I'm coming to you."

David doesn't bother to argue. He couldn't move right now even if he wanted to, still struggling to inhale as his vision slowly clears. Closing his eyes, he focuses on steadying his breathing as the steps get louder and louder. "Davey?" Sarah's voice is high and panicked, scared in a way he hasn't heard in a long time.

"Here," David shouts back. It's only seconds later when hands cradle his face, and David urges his eyes open again. His vision swims, but he doesn't need to see clearly to recognize Sarah's face above him. "I'm okay, Saz," he murmurs, reaching up to take one of her hands.

"Don't you 'Saz' me right now," Sarah chides furiously. Her face is pale, and her eyes are wide with alarm. "I'm gonna kill you. The fuck's wrong with you?"

"At the moment? Your yelling is giving me a headache," David responds. He yelps when Sarah slaps him just hard enough to startle him. " _Ow_ , alright, sorry."

"Damn right, you're sorry," Sarah says. "Keep your eyes open. Now, tell me what the hell just happened."

David exhales, his free hand rubbing his temple. "His name is Jack." Sarah's brow furrows, so he elaborates, "The boy I saw before. I saw him again, right there. His name's Jack."

"You talked to him?" Tony asks eagerly from the doorway.

"No, it's more - it's like watching a scene in a play," David explains. "It's like _I_ was the ghost. I could see them, but none of them could see me. They walked right through me like I didn't exist." His gaze darts to the floor where the boy had been laying. "He was still all bloodied. God, I watched the guards just kick him around when he was already on the floor. And there was another boy with him, even younger, and his leg was so messed up he couldn't even use it."

"Sounds like there's some real traction to those theories about abusin' the kids," Tony says grimly.

Sarah bites her lip as she surveys his face, tipping his chin up with one hand to check his eyes. "You sure you're okay?"

"Physically, yeah," says David. "My head is killing, but that's it. I just wanna know why this is happening. Why me and wh-" He pauses midsentence when the whisper of voices in the back of his head picks up again, and he winces at the noise. David glances over Sarah's shoulder, and he can see the boy again, this time laid out on his side, midway down the room.

"Dave?"

"He's back," David says, using the wall for support as he shoves himself upright. Silencing Sarah and Tony's questions with a vague gesture, he crosses the room toward where Jack is stretched out. The bed beneath him and the blanket over him are nothing more than smudges of gray shadow to David, like a program where the rest of the world hasn't loaded in all the way. The blood is gone from Jack's skin, for the most part, rust-colored stains left behind, and there are blotches of pink bright on his pale cheekbones.

Jack's head turns his direction as David kneels down. His brown eyes are glassy, but they settle on David's face just like they did the first time. Forehead furrowed, a dazed smile slips across Jack's lips. "Davey?"

David flinches back in surprise, his heart leaping into his throat. Before he can even think about responding, he hears another voice. "Jacky?" David can't see him, and the voice is echoing like it's coming from far away, but he recognizes the sound of the younger boy from earlier, the one called Crutchie. "Jack, Davey ain't here."

"But he-" Jack frowns, gazing at David in confusion. Slipping one hand out from under the blanket, Jack holds it out. David is just far enough that he can't reach, but Jack's eyes are desperate and pleading beneath the glaze of illness. David swallows hard and tentatively lifts his own hand. He hesitates for a second before reaching out to grasp the crooked fingers - and his hand passes straight through Jack's.

"Oh," Jack exhales, and his hand drops as fast as his expression.

"Youse fever's worse," Crutchie murmurs anxiously. David can faintly pick up the impression of hands dabbing at the sweat on Jack's brow, careful fingers tending to his flushed skin. Jack's eyes flutter, and then, between one blink and the next, he's gone.

David lets out a breath, and his hand falls into his lap. "Dave?" Sarah ventures softly.

"He knew my name," David says, still staring at where Jack was only seconds ago. Those eyes, even shining with fever, had fixed on him so certainly. "He looked right at me and - he called me _Davey_." Shaking, David looks up at his sister where she's standing just behind him. "Sarah, what's happening to me?"

* * *

Back in the central hub, David sips carefully at a bottle of water and watches Tony and Ryan bickering over the recorded information from David's camera and EMF reader. Most of the technical jargon is boring and goes over his head, but focusing on them helps him tune out the disembodied voices that he can still hear around him. The chill beneath his skin is worse, a dull ache in his bones, and the throbbing behind his eyes isn't giving up either. He thought it was a migraine at first, but this isn't like any migraine he's ever had before.

As much as he wants to, he can't stop thinking about the look in Jack's eyes when they landed on David, or the sheer hope in his voice when he called out to him. It struck something deep inside David's chest, a pang of loss that he's never felt before. He doesn't understand it, but there's this gnawing _emptiness_ he can't explain. A sharp, phantom pain shoots through his core, and David frowns, rubbing the heel of his hand against his stomach.

David jumps when he catches a glimmer of motion in the corner of his eye, but it's only Kat. She sits down next to him with a sympathetic look, smoothing one hand along his arm in a comforting gesture. "How are you holding up?" she asks gently.

Exhaling, David shrugs. "I just want to understand," he says, picking at the paper label on the water bottle to busy his shaking hands. "Why now and why _me_ , you know?"

"You're connected to that boy somehow," Kat says.

"But how?" David asks. "How can I be connected to some kid who lived a hundred years ago? How is _any_ of this even possible?"

Kat smiles, wryly. "If we could answer that question, we'd be out of a job," she points out, shrugging. David huffs a laugh. "All I know is that for some reason, you and this boy are drawn together, and a connection like that isn't something to be ignored."

David takes a shuddering breath, and the idea that's taken root in the back of his head finally escapes. "What if he's the one who started the fire? I mean, that'd make sense right? For all this to be happening tonight of all nights, it's _gotta_ be him. I can't-" David trails off with a strangled noise, dropping his forehead into his free hand as another ripple of pain rolls through him. He doesn't know why that possibility hurts so much; why the chance that this boy with the beautiful brown eyes might be a killer feels like some horrible betrayal.

And if that's the sort of person that David has some kind of weird cosmic connection with, what does that say about _him_?

It seems like Kat doesn't have an answer to that because all she does is shift her hand to his back and rub between his shoulders soothingly. For some reason, that only makes him feel worse. David downs the rest of the water and straightens his spine. He's not just going to sit around and wallow in self-pity. He's going to get to the bottom of this.

"What are you doing?" Kat asks when he stands up.

"I'm going to figure out what really happened here," David says.

"Hold up," Sarah interposes, breaking away from the others to stop him. "The last time knocked you on your ass, and you think you're gonna go chasing down more of that?"

Setting his jaw, David lifts his chin determinedly. "Yes. Whatever this is, it's happening to me for a reason. This place or this boy or whatever, it's trying to tell me something. I'm going to find out what." When Sarah opens her mouth, an argument already forming on her lips, David talks over her, "Come with if you want, but you're not stopping me."

"He's right," Ryan says, and Sarah turns her glare on him immediately. "Don't gimme that look, you know it's true. Whatever this thing is, if it's latched onto him, it's gonna keep reaching out to him whether he goes lookin' or not."

"Red threads," Elmer interjects, shooting a pointed look at Sarah. David frowns at the non sequitur, but it seems to have some effect on his sister because her scowl drops. She glances from Elmer to David thoughtfully, something pained and resigned in her gaze.

A scream from somewhere deep in the building makes David jump, and he turns, eyes casting over the stairs and hall entrances in search of a source. He knows, without really knowing how he knows it, that it's Jack. It has to be. Everything he's experienced in this place comes back to the boy called Jack. David shoots a quick, resolute glance at Sarah, and then starts down a hall.

"Rest of you, back to work," Sarah says hastily, and then David hears two pairs of footsteps trailing him. Sarah catches up to him before he reaches the corner, putting a hand on his arm to get his attention. "What's gotten into you?" she asks more quietly, some of the concern he can tell she's been masking in front of the others slipping out. "You don't even believe in this stuff, and now you're tearing off after a spirit?"

"I can't explain it," David says, as frustrated with himself as anything else. He doesn't even know where he's going, honestly, just blindly following that echo in his chest that's urging him on. "I don't - It's just this _feeling_. I've been feeling it since we got here, this wrongness. Like there's something important I'm missing. I just - need to know."

Sarah nods, letting the conversation drop with nothing more than a squeeze of his wrist. David can hear Tony grumbling to himself behind them, and further away, the sound of Kat and Ryan undoubtedly going back to their search, but that's not what David's listening for. He hesitates for a second before a choked off yelp sends him down the left hall.

The central part of the building seems to have been devoted to communal rooms: the kitchens, canteen, and a shower hall. The western side of the building is taken up mainly by what would've been the warden's office, distinguishable only by the fact that it's the area with the worst fire damage. Half of the wall panels are broken and missing, revealing the brickwork beneath, and the floorboards are warped black from the heat. It sent tremors along David's spine seeing it the first time, but now, the room turns his stomach.

Another cry sounds just as he steps into the room, and his vision skews. The image comes overlaid on reality like someone's placed a filter over the world; he can still see the blackened wood and crumbling bricks, but he can also see the heavy desk in the center of the room and the polished oil lanterns hanging from brackets on the walls. A cozy fire dances in the grate, painting the room in shades of gold. David's attention, however, fixes solely on the spindly wooden chair parked in front of the desk and its occupant.

The Jack sitting there looks infinitely healthier than David's seen so far. He's still young and thin, but it's not the emaciated hollowness of starvation. There's a slight tan to his skin, faintly sun-pinked along the bridge of his nose and tops of his ears, and his hair's shorter. A brilliantly violet bruise discolors one eye, and his lip is split and bleeding, but he looks vibrant and defiant and _alive_ beneath the ropes binding his arms and legs to the chair.

Jack's head snaps to the side from an unseen blow, and David sees him biting back a pained noise. "Cowards," Jack mutters and immediately receives another smack hard enough that the chair legs lift off the ground a little. With a laugh, Jack grins up at his attacker through bloodied teeth. "What's'a matter?" the boy taunts. "Scared ta' fight a punk kid? That why ya meaters jumped me from behind like rats? Lemme outta these ropes, I show ya-"

"Out." The voice makes David's skin prickle, a vile, slippery feeling like rancid oil ribboning across his flesh. Something about it makes his stomach curl, a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

Jack growls furiously, eyes sparking with a sudden rage. "Ya dirty, back-stabbin' sonuvabitch!" Jack snarls at the newcomer. David doesn't see this person, but he does see when Jack's head jerks backward, hair tousled from a tightly-wound fist that forces him to look up at the speaker. "I knew ya was low, Snyder, but didn't take ya for a four-flushin' _bastard_."

Jack abruptly gags, gasping and coughing when a blow to the exposed length of his throat steals his breath. "You'll learn to watch your mouth, Mr. Kelly," the voice - Snyder, presumably - hisses in satisfaction as Jack continues to choke. "I will make sure of that. And until you do, I'll find and take it out of the hide of every single one of your little upstart friends."

"Ya promised," Jack wheezes, eyes watering but fierce. "Promised if I turned scab, ya'd leave my boys 'lone. That was the 'greement. You leave my boys, and Crutch and me leave New York, and we's all good."

"I think you'll find," Snyder practically purrs, "that's the agreement you made with Mr. Pulitzer. _I_ agreed to no such thing."

And beneath the flashing fury, David can see something like genuine fear blossom in Jack's eyes. "Ain't gonna get 'way with this," the boy says. "My boys find out I'm here, they's gonna come for you. And ol' Joe ain't gonna like ya goin' back on his deal."

Jack abruptly leans back as far as he can where he's trapped in the chair, and David can just imagine a figure leaning into his space, a menacing face only inches from Jack's. "That's implying anyone finds out you're here," Snyder says, voice low and menacing.

"Word'll get out if ya like it or not," says Jack, but he sounds less sure. "Ain't a stranger here, otha kids'll recognize me. And ya gotta put it on the books or ya ain't gettin' paid, right?"

Snyder laughs, and it's cold and terrifying. "Oh, I'm willing to teach you a lesson for free. In fact, I've been looking forward to it for a long time. I think some private lessons are _exactly_ what you need."

And all traces of composure are gone from Jack's face now, skin blanched with naked panic as he starts struggling against the ropes in earnest again. Heart seizing, David steps forward, but the image instantly disappears, leaving him alone in the middle of the burnt office.

"Pulitzer," David says, turning back to the door. Tony and Sarah are both watching him, the camera rolling, but David doesn't pay attention to that as he meets his sister's gaze. "Jack said he'd made a deal with a Mr. Pulitzer."

"Who's that?" Tony asks curiously. "I've heard that name before."

"Pulitzer was a newspaper magnate back around the turn of the century," Sarah explains, frowning. "He's considered the most influential name in American journalism."

"Oh, like a Pulitzer Prize, right? That's the thing for writers, isn't it?" Tony says. David and Sarah both nod. "So what's he got to do with this?"

David cards a hand through his hair. "I don't know," he says irritably. "It doesn't make sense. Why would a newspaper owner be making deals with a teenage boy? Unless-" David's eyes widen. "Unless it was about the strikes. The newsboy strikes of '99," he embellishes at the confused looks. "They would've taken place just a couple months before the fire here. So maybe-"

A sudden sharp pang goes through his stomach and David gasps, doubled over with his arms around his middle. It vanishes as quickly as it started, but it still leaves him momentarily breathless. "I'm okay," he says when he feels Sarah's hand on his back. He straightens up, grimacing at the faint, lingering ache in his muscles. "I'm okay."

"Yeah, sure you are," Sarah replies sarcastically.

"There's something more here," David says, picking up his train of thought again before she can try to talk him out of it. "I know it. I just need more information." He closes his eyes and tries to focus. The distant clamor of whispered voices is still there, but he tries to sift through it for one particular voice. Maybe he can find him, can prompt another connection to help him. "C'mon, Jack, you've got something to show me. So _show me_."

* * *

They spend the next two hours sprinting back and forth, following vague circles around the Refuge as David chases after the whispers of Jack's voice he keeps hearing. For the most part, it seems to all take place within just a few rooms: the warden's office, the dank stone room with the drains he first saw Jack in, and a cramped closet at the back of the building. David never seems to catch more than brief flashes, split-second glimpses like the very first one or tiny fragments of disembodied conversation.

A lot of it, as best he can tell, is Jack being beaten by the guards and the warden; grunts and shouts, the thud of impact, hissed threats and snarled responses. There's one flash accompanied by the sickening sound of leather against flesh, a riding crop cracking over a bared back. It also doesn't help that the moments seem to be coming entirely out of order, judging by the fluctuations in Jack's physical state. One moment he is pale and emaciated where he's been deposited on the floor of the warden's office, another he'll be fresh-faced and fighting back like an animal in the drain room.

"This isn't helping!" David shouts irritably when the impression of Jack, this time once again slumped on the floor as the guards take turns kicking him and dousing him in buckets of frigid water, fades into shadow again. "You're not telling me _why_!"

"Dave," Sarah says comfortingly. He jumps when she grasps his shoulder, wound too tight from the stress. She kneads her fingertips into the stiff muscle there, gaze stern and compassionate. "You need to breathe. Stay calm. Getting worked up isn't going to help."

"Sorry, I know," David says, scrubbing his hands over his face wearily. "It's just - not easy to watch."

Tony huffs. "I bet," he says, grimacing. "Kids gettin' hit is always hard to think about." David shoots a worried glance at Tony; during a drunken celebration after a show wrap, Tony had told David about his home life growing up, so David knows child abuse is a personal subject for Tony. The man doesn't let it show on his face though, only a faint tightness in his jaw that's barely perceptible. He coughs and clears his throat before he finishes, "And this, if what you're guessin' is right, this went on for _months_."

It's not a guess anymore. During one of the flashes in the warden's office, David heard Jack - still looking healthy enough to be close to the beginning of his arrest - bemoan the July heat, and the fire occurred at the end of October. That means that Jack's imprisonment went on for three months at the bare minimum, depending on when in July he was arrested. Three months of constant beatings, of isolation from anyone but his abusers, of limited food and water and sleep. It's a miracle Jack survived as long as he did; or perhaps less of a miracle and more of a curse, in this case.

"Well, if his ghost is trying to make a case for justified homicide, I'm feeling inclined to side with him," David admits with a humorless laugh. "I mean, we've obviously got a possible 'unreliable narrator' situation here, but if even a _quarter_ of the stuff this Warden Snyder did is true, his death was no loss."

Another sharp ache bolts through David's gut, and he bites his lip to mask the pain, not wanting Sarah to worry more than she already is. The spasms have been getting more frequent as the night goes by, a searing echo of pain that comes about every twenty minutes or so now. The gradually shrinking time gap makes him think they're gearing up to something, that it's a sort of countdown to the inevitable. The thought is not exactly an encouraging one.

David startles at a distant scream and glances up in surprise. "Upstairs," he murmurs, perplexed. This is the first time the voices have taken them back upstairs. He takes off running, the other two on his heels, and bolts up to the second floor.

The short, breathless cries lead him back to that bunkroom. This time, he barely even feels the wave of vertigo that crashes into him, and the room is in sharper focus. Rows of beds, shoddily-made, house children crammed three to a mattress beneath shared, threadbare blankets.

Heading straight for the bed where Jack lays, David surveys his face. The boy is back to the frailest appearance, his cheeks faintly flushed with fever and bone structure alarmingly pronounced. He's shivering beneath the blanket while the boy called Crutchie brushes his sweat-tangled hair off his forehead, whispering soothing words. "M'sorry, Jacky, but I gotta get 'em set," Crutchie says, and that's when David sees he's cradling Jack's right hand. The fingers are bruised and swollen, clearly broken. "Ain't gonna heal right if I don't. On'y one left."

"I know," Jack slurs thickly. He swallows hard, his eyes screwed shut against the pain. "S'okay. Do it." Crutchie's expression is tortured, but he takes one of Jack's fingers and tugs, shifting the broken bone back into place. Jack yelps again like he can't help it, stuffing his other fist into his mouth to muffle the sound.

"There ya go," Crutchie says, setting Jack's hand on his stomach as gently as he can. "Be paintin' 'gain in no time."

Jack makes a noise that's halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Paintin's the last thing I's thinkin' 'bout." His eyes flutter open, glancing up to the younger boy, and there's more focus and lucidity in them this time. "Any the fellas been by yet?"

"Not yet," Crutchie says, shrugging. "Don't risk it s'much as they used'ta. Spider's been out for 'em since the strike. Nabs 'em on anythin' he can. Got Race for lookin' at 'im funny once, called it _actin' disorderly_." Jack snorts, although the motion quickly turns it into a moan. "None's in righ'now, so far's I know, and ain't no one come to visit in a while. Why?"

"Tryna figure why Spider brought me up here," Jack admits. "Been keepin' me on my own all'is time, didn't want folks knowin' I was here. So why's he put me up with the rest'a ya now?"

Crutchie hums thoughtfully, brow furrowed. "Maybe's been long 'nough since the strike," he suggests. "Wanted fellas ta' think ya skipped on the union, but that's all ova now. Spot stepped in, got 'em to settle somethin' with Pulitzer. So don't matta if youse gone or not no more, right?"

"Maybe," Jack agrees distractedly. "Dunno. Just gotta think he's up ta' _somethin'_ , ya know?" He exhales heavily, and his gaze darts to Crutchie again. "How long s'been? Why you still here?"

"S'October now," Crutchie says, shrugging. "I still got time. Whackin' Oscar with my crutch got me six whole months. Then I _might'a_ bit a guard was roughin' me." A small, proud smile flickers across Jack's mouth. "Got me anotha couple weeks for it. So I'mma be here a while."

"October?" Jack asks, an eyebrow raised. "Damn, longer 'an I thought. 'Splains why it's s'cold."

Crutchie huffs a small laugh. "That and youse fever," he says, dabbing the sweat off Jack's brow with his dirty sleeve. "Least it fin'ly broke."

Jack clears his throat, and he looks momentarily uncertain. "Ya heard from Davey?" David jumps at the mention of his name, taking a step closer.

"Not since right afta the rally," Crutchie says, and his gaze is sympathetic. "He came ta' check on me, told me he weren't givin' up on the union. But Spider and Pulitzer both had it out for 'im, tryna get the strike stopped. Think Davey would'a kept goin' forever, but Specs says Spider threatened goin' afta Les and even Sarah."

"Sarah?" David can't stop himself from asking, alarmed, and he takes another step closer.

The boys, of course, take no note of him. Crutchie chews on the corner of his thumb absentmindedly before he continues, "So Dave told the fellas he was takin' off afta that, tryna keep his family safe. Last I heard, he's still in hidin' somewhere. Finch swears he saw him 'round the shipyards once, so might be hidin' out with the Brooklyn crew, but if so, Spot ain't sayin', not even to Racer."

"Should'a know he weren't gonna stop," Jack mutters, and beneath the irritation, there's a thread of something softer. Affection or respect or awe. "Should'a know he'd keep goin' even afta I took the deal. Fuckin' idiot. On'y did this whole thing ta' keep youse guys safe and ain't _that_ worked out a treat." His voice rises as he talks, picking up a growl of anger until he dissolves into a coughing fit. He seizes with the force of it, curling in on himself, and it shakes the whole bunk bed. The movement triggers a couple bleary grumbles of complaint from the third boy on their mattress as well as the ones on the top bunk.

"Hey, hey, easy," Crutchie says, rubbing a hand over Jack's spine soothingly. By the time Jack relaxes again, his eyes are watering from the pain. He slumps onto his back, gaze vacant as it fixes on the bunk above them. "We gonna get outta this, Jacky," the younger boy says, soft but resolute. "Know it. And we'll find Dave, and all three us'll catch that train west. Ridin' palominos in style, 'member?"

Jack chuckles weakly. "Youse somethin' else, pal, ya know that?" he says fondly. "Wish ya wasn't here, ya know, rather you was out there with the fellas - but I'm still real glad I gotcha."

"Course ya do," Crutchie responds. "S'like ya said, we's family." Jack reaches across with his good hand to pat Crutchie's leg, and the younger boy squeezes his fingers reassuringly. "And all the fellas, they's gonna say so too, when they find out youse here."

"Not all of 'em," Jack counters, his smile dimming.

Crutchie frowns, and he must be able to read something in Jack's expression because he prompts, "Davey?" Jack winces at the name, which is answer enough. "You and him, youse-" Crutchie stops at the brief fear that blooms on Jack's face, gaze wide and pleading. Biting his tongue, the younger boy shakes his head. "Neva mind, ain't matta. But I think youse wrong. He gonna forgive ya too."

"Wish you was right," Jack mutters, and then he rolls onto his side, effectively turning his back on Crutchie.

The dismissal in the gesture is obvious, and although hurt sparks on Crutchie's face, he nods. "Get some sleep, Jacky. Be betta in the mornin', you'll see." And David sees a tear slip from Jack's closed eyes before the image fades back into shadow.

"I was right," David says, knowing Sarah and Tony are undoubtedly somewhere just behind him. He can't bring himself to take his eyes off the spot where he last saw Jack, the split-second glimpse of that crushed expression and single tear burning against his retinas like an afterimage. "They were newsboys. Part of the strike. Jack and Crutchie and - Davey."

"Davey?" Sarah echoes. "So Davey was a real person? Like, this Jack's not talking to _you_ specifically, he's talking about someone named Davey?"

David shrugs, turning to face them with a weary breath. Sarah immediately gasps, and she grabs his face, swiping her thumb along his upper lip. When she draws her hand back, her thumb is covered in blood. "Oh, shit," David says, dragging his wrist beneath his nose. "That's weird."

"Weird? You ever seen a horror movie, bro?" Tony says anxiously. His voice cracks and he clears his throat, rubbing the side of his neck absently. "That ain't weird, that's signs of bad shit coming."

"Those are movies," Sarah snaps dryly, rolling her eyes, but she's grasping David's arm like she's afraid he's going to fall over at any second. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, fine, didn't even notice," David admits. He checks his nose, but there's no more blood coming, so it seems to have stopped. "Must be all the dust in here." None of them believe it, not even David, but none of them press it any further. "I think Jack was one of the union leaders," he says, turning them back to the subject at hand. "And that's why he was making deals with Pulitzer, and why he got arrested. It was all part of trying to end the strikes."

"And this Davey, you think he was too?" Sarah asks.

David nods, casting a quick glance over his shoulder toward the bed even though he knows it's not there anymore. "They talked about him trying to keep the strike going after Jack left," he says slowly. "I think he might've been another one of the leaders. And I think-" David trails off, the words sticking on his tongue. He recalls the tentative hope in Jack's voice when he asked, the look of alarm on Jack's face when Crutchie asked about their relationship. It would've been illegal back then, but when has that ever stopped kids in love?

But David can't bring himself to share that idea with the others. It feels oddly like betraying a trust, somehow. For some reason, he's being given a glimpse into this boy's life, and it seems wrong to share a secret he clearly went to great lengths to protect. David refuses to even acknowledge the part of him that shattered apart on seeing Jack's palpable heartbreak. It felt too personal, too _real_ , and he doesn't want to consider what that means - especially in regards to someone about ten years younger than him who died over a hundred years ago.

"They also mentioned Davey's family," David says instead, looking to Sarah anxiously. "That he ran away from the strikes to protect his family because the warden was going after them. Their names were Les and Sarah."

"Whoa, what?" Tony asks, eyebrows rising. "First a David, now a Sarah too?"

Sarah's grip on David's arm has gotten painfully tight, her nails biting into his skin even through his sleeve, and he can see the realization in her eyes even before she voices it. "Les; isn't that what mom was going to name...?"

David swallows hard and nods. Their mother's unexpected pregnancy, nearly ten years after the birth of the twins, had ended in a late-term miscarriage. The tragedy tore their family apart, and their mother eventually succumbed to her depression clutching the little empty photo album that was meant to be filled with the memories of her youngest child's life, the name they never got to use monogrammed on the front: _Lesley_.

"David, this - this can't be possible," Sarah says incredulously, and both men blink at her in surprise. In his entire life, David doesn't think he's ever heard Sarah deny the possibility of something. She's always willing to believe in anything, in _everything_. Her hand is shaking on his arm, and she looks distinctly pale as she shakes her head and forces on a look of calm. "Anything else?"

"No, not really, but I think we're getting close," David says, idly rubbing the spot on his abdomen where he keeps feeling phantom pains.

Tony huffs. "Better be. We're gonna run outta night eventually. And honestly, 'tween your nose bleedin' and my throat hurting, I'm kinda ready to be outta here."

"Your _what_?" David and Sarah turn on him simultaneously.

Tony has enough self-preservation that he takes a quick step back under their dual glares. "It's not bad or nothing," he says, holding up the hand not steadying the camera. "The dust and stuff, you know? Smoker lungs ain't made for runnin' 'round like this, bit winded is all. I got my inhaler, we're all good, relax."

"You're such an idiot," Sarah mutters mutinously, but David can see the concern in her gaze as she eyes the cameraman. Whether she'll admit it or not, she's fond of the stupid guy. Not that David's any better. Tony is the youngest member of the crew by several years, and they all appreciate his energy and enthusiasm, buoying them up when the work gets too heavy. But right now, even he is tense and uncertain as he glances between the Jacobs siblings for direction.

Clearly, this site is affecting them all. David swallows and seeks out Jack's voice again; they need to finish this and fast. 

* * *

The tiny little closet is barely more than a broom cupboard, hidden away behind the kitchens at the back of the building. It's a cramped space, only four feet square, with a single doorway and no windows. Although the shelves themselves are gone, there are staggered holes in the wall where shelves would've once attached, the lowest one only just more than three feet off the ground. From the brief glimpses David's been given into the past, he's gathered that the cupboard was used less for storing supplies and more for punishment.

Jack is curled on his side on the floor of the closet, his body folded into the low gap of space allotted to him. Heavy iron cuffs are on his wrists, the skin beneath them raw and red, and there's a stained rag knotted around his mouth. He's obviously been at the Refuge for a little while at this point, his skin a tie-dye of bruises and cheeks slightly hollowed.

It's becoming a familiar sight at this point. David's seen moments like this before, Jack being shoved bodily into the tiny space and left alone for unknowable amounts of time. He's seen Jack recoil in pain when the door opens, his eyes unaccustomed to light after so long trapped in the dark. He's seen Jack sobbing, shame-faced, as he's forced to relieve himself awkwardly in corners with nowhere else to go, and then mocked for the mess by the guards who retrieve him later.

Sitting down on the floor in front of the shivering figure, Davey lets out a sad sigh. "Oh, Jack."

Jack's eyes go abruptly wide, and he startles, pushing up onto his elbows and twisting his head like he's searching for something. David's heart leaps into his throat. "Jack?" he tries again, and the boy's head snaps to the side, squinting in David's direction in confusion. David knows he can't actually see anything, his pupils are so wide in the dark that they've nearly swallowed the brown; even still, for Jack, there would be a door between them. And yet... "Jack, can you hear me?"

Jack jerks again, his brow furrowed, and he shakes his head like a dog trying to get rid of water. "If you can hear me," David says, trying to speak as clearly as possible, "my name's David. I'm trying to find out what happened to you, Jack." The boy squeezes his eyes shut and curls into a ball again, cuffed hands lifting to press fingers into his ears as best as he can. "Jack, please, I'm trying to help," David says. He tentatively reaches out to touch the boy's shoulder. Although David's hand passes through his skin again, Jack still flinches back like he felt it. "I know that something bad happened here, and I want to help, but I need to know what happened. Can you-?"

And then Jack screams, a high, piercing shriek that shouldn't be possible with the gag in his mouth. It echoes throughout the building, an eerie, unearthly wail that turns David's bones to ice. David hurries to cover his ears, but it does no good, ringing in his ears and sending the pain at the back of his head surging forward. The scream goes on and on and on - and then it stops at the exact moment Jack disappears before his eyes.

"The fuck was that?" Tony asks breathlessly.

David spins on his knees to look up at the other two, who are both rubbing their ears. "You heard it?" he asks.

Before either of them can respond, the near-forgotten radio crackles and Ryan's voice comes over. "You guys hear that?"

"Oh good, thought it was just me," Elmer responds through the speaker. "What was that?"

"The ghost," Tony says, after a quick glance at David for confirmation. "Whatever's going on, it's gettin' a lot stronger."

"Yeah, our EMF is so high it won't even register on the scans anymore," Ryan chips in. "We've picked up a couple orb flickers and stuff, but nothing solid. Thought things'd be worst at midnight, but it's way past, and they keep gettin' stronger." There's a pause, and then, "Kat thinks it might be tied to the time of the fire. Anyone know what time that was?"

Sarah and Tony both look at David expectantly. "All the reports said sometime around three," he says. As Tony relays that information over the receiver, David checks his watch -  _2:47 am_.

"Guys, we're heading back down," Ryan says suddenly. "Kat's lookin' pretty pale and I'm not feelin' too great either."

"Same," Elmer adds, voice softer than usual.

Sarah snatches the radio from Tony's hand. "Back to the hub, now," she barks into the receiver. "We need to recon." They can all hear the words she's not saying; that they might have to step back from this one, that it might be time to pull out. They've only ever done that once before, the time that Kat collapsed in that old manor house in St. Louis. "C'mon," she says to them both, nodding over her shoulder to the main hall.

David glances at the empty closet one more time and then stands. He only makes it a handful of steps before he hesitates, brow furrowed. "Dave, c'mon," Sarah says insistently.

"Shh," David says, waving her hand away as he strains his ears. He thought he heard-

" _Davey_!"

It's faint, distant and echoing, but there's no mistaking it. David's eyes widen. Ignoring Sarah's objection, he sprints passed her in pursuit of the weak voice that's calling out for him. It leads him back to the room with the grates in the floor, and he pauses in the doorway to activate the flashlight on his phone again. He shines it across the room until it lands on a bared foot, and he pans up to the body.

Jack is sitting propped against the far wall, his clothes soaked and water ribboning down his cheeks from his hair. The iron handcuffs still circle his wrists, and he's pale and shivering in the dark. Eyes half-lidded, he breathes shallow and harsh. This Jack has clearly been there for a long time; the hand curled in his lap has the bruised and broken fingers that Crutchie sets for him.

"Jack?" David ventures tentatively.

The boy jumps, eyes searching the darkness for something he can't see. "Who's'at?" he whispers, voice hoarse.

David walks slowly across the room, and as he does, the light catches on puddles of water draining down the grates, scarlet with blood. The guards favored this room for beatings because it made it easy to rinse off the mess when Jack bled, David figured out hours ago. His steps don't disturb the water, parting around his shoes like air and leaving the fabric dry.

When he reaches Jack's outstretched foot - missing two toenails and the sole striped with cuts - David crouches down to be level with him. "Jack, can you hear me?" he asks gently, although the teen still startles at his voice. "My name's Dave."

A hollow, mocking smile crosses Jack's lips. "Ah, _you_ 'gain. Y'ain't real," he says decisively.

"I'm real," David counters, licking his lips uncertainly. "I - my name's David Jacobs, and I'm-"

"Nah, 'cause see, I _know_ David Jacobs," Jack cuts him off. His eyes have drifted shut again, and he's still wearing that slightly cocky half-smirk. "And he ain't here. Too smart fa' that. He's long gone, far 'way from me. Safe." Jack lets out a slow breath. "But if youse here, if youse the Davey I been seein', ain't gonna complain. Means the fever's back 'gain. Might fin'ly take me this time."

"No, hey, c'mon," David says, something in his chest seizing up at the look of near-longing on the boy's face. "Hang in there, kid. I want to help, okay? We can figure this out."

Jack gives a wheezing laugh that turns into a wet, hacking cough. David winces; it sounds like pneumonia. Probably from sitting around in cold stone rooms while soaking wet. Seriously, this kid must be made of pure stubbornness to have survived for so long. "Ya sound like Crutchie," Jack murmurs, smiling again. "Kid always sees the sun comin' up, no matta what. Thinks there ain't nothin' I can't do." His lips tremble before he presses them tightly together. "Don't matta how many times I prove 'im wrong."

"I'm going to help you, Jack," David says firmly. "I am. I'm going to find a way to help you."

"Youse stubborn as my Davey, fo'sure," Jack comments idly. "Miss that. Even miss fightin' with him. My best friend, ya know? Ain't never thought a kid like me'd have a friend like him. Got my boys, but them I gotta take care of. Keep 'em safe and alive and all. Davey, you don't need none that from me but ya still stuck 'round. Was my friend just _'cause_." It doesn't escape David's notice that at some point in the middle, Jack switched to referring to him as the same Davey. The boy continues, unperturbed. "And all that with the strike - ya made me brave, braver 'an I ever was. Youse a'ways been braver 'an me. And ya-" Jack trails off, frowning slightly, and raises a hand to brush fingertips over his lips. "Dunno, just would'a been nice ta' see if we stayed friends, afta it all."

Tears course down David's cheeks, a crushing ache in his chest that steals his breath, like he can feel the heartbreak in Jack's eyes for himself. "Jack, please, don't give up," David says, his voice wavering. He doesn't know why he's so persistent on this; David knows, deep down, that there's no happy ending for this boy, but he can't make himself accept that in this moment. "Don't give up on me."

And Jack's smile is tremulous, eyes moist when he opens them. "On you? Neva," he says. "But me? I'm outta time. Spider's gonna put me in the cella'."

"Cellar?" David echoes, brow furrowed. He's been over all of the reports, all of the old blueprints and documentation. "This building doesn't have a cellar."

"Course it do," Jack responds. "S'where the ones go 'at don't come back." He frowns, face scrunching up in pain. "S'where we a'ways end up, in the end, you an' me." Something flashes across his face, a dark shiver. "S'happenin' 'gain, ain't it? Can feel it. Ova and ova, I'm stuck and can't make it _stop_."

"Jack?" David asks nervously, reaching out halfway. There's something different to Jack's expression now, the weary resignation of mortality replaced by frantic energy behind his eyes. Before David can touch him, however, that sharp, hot pain shoots through his stomach again, and he withdraws with a hiss.

"Dave!" Sarah's voice interrupts, making David jump. "Dave, it's Tony!" David turns and sees Tony on his knees in the doorway, the camera fallen to the floor beside him. The blonde is gagging and gasping, clawing at his throat like he's trying to remove something although there's nothing there. His face flushes red as he continues to grasp for air desperately. Sarah's kneeling beside him, her hands fluttering uselessly as she attempts to help.

"I try, ev'ry time, but don't do no good," Jack says, and his face is awash with suffering when David turns back to him.

"Guys, where are you?" Kat's voice is frantic and terrified over the radio. "Ryan and Elms both just collapsed, and Ryan's freezing cold and Elms' nose is bleeding, and I don't know what's wrong! _Where are you_?"

Jack's lips quiver again. "I can't keep 'em safe. Tried but I can't stop it. M'sorry, Davey. I dunno what ta' do. M'sorry." Jack's eyes suddenly meet David's with absolute certainty, somehow seeing through all the time and pain between them to bore into David. "You gotta go 'fore he gets ya too."

"Please, Jack, my friends are in danger here," David begs, listening to Tony's frail rasps getting gradually quieter from behind. "We have to do _something_. Just tell me what to do to help them."

"I dunno what ta' do," Jack repeats emphatically. "Dontcha get that? Been tryin' foreva and it won't stop, and I gotta see 'em dead, ova and ova, and it's my fault, and _it won't stop_."

"Then let me help you," David says, even as the ache in his stomach surges forward again. His head is pounding, a sharp, stabbing from the back of his skull straight through to his eye like a lightning bolt, causing spots to spark in his vision. There's warm moisture beneath his nose, blood hot against his chilled skin as it rolls toward his lip, but he holds Jack's gaze. "Please, Jack. Let me help you."

Jack's breathing is ragged as he stares back, panicked and lost. Then he licks his lips and holds out a hand. Without thinking, without hesitation, David takes it. 

* * *

It feels like waking up from a deep sleep, consciousness and awareness coming back to him in tiny, hazy increments. David can't fully feel his body, his limbs not responding to his commands, but at the same time, everything hurts, a dull, phantom aching deep into his bones. He's cold, like the darkest winter when the ice seeps straight through and sinks its talons in so deep it feels like it will never let go. His head is a pulsing agony, and he can taste copper and dirt and sweat.

"Now don't be that way, Jack." The voice is a taunting sing-song, and David recognizes it as the warden, Snyder. "I've got a special gift for you. It's taken me a long time to get this ready, but I think you'll like it."

His vision comes back all at once, the colors that emerge from the blackness dazzling his eyes for a second before David can process them. The room is hard brick and low-ceilinged, illuminated by staggered lanterns that cast dancing waves of sickly yellow across everything. David vaguely notes two figures are standing in front of a huddled form against the far wall, another person laying in the middle of the floor, but movement draws his attention to the entryway.

Jack stumbles on the stairs and falls to his knees with a cry, barely catching himself on his cuffed hands before he hits the ground. David instinctively reaches out to help him, but his body still won't respond; he's nothing more than a watching entity, a voiceless ghost hovering in a corner. Behind Jack, a towering man in a black suit enters. He seizes Jack by the back of the neck and hauls him upright again with a sneer. "That's no way to greet your friends," the warden croons derisively.

Dazed, Jack wobbles on his bleeding feet as he tries to focus on the room. "Crutchie," Jack gasps out in horror, and David follows his gaze to the middle of the floor. The figure sprawled there is nearly unrecognizable, skin dyed in a patchwork of black and blue with one eye swollen shut and blood dried on his skin and hair. Unconscious, Crutchie barely seems to be breathing, one arm wrapped around his middle and his deformed leg jutting out at an odd angle. "Jesus, the fuck'd ya do to 'im, ya sonuvabitch?" Jack snarls, eyes sparking as he thrashes in Snyder's grip.

"I didn't do anything," Snyder responds, smirking as he shrugs. "A few of the guards might've _spoken_ to him, but that's all." Jack makes another furious, animal noise as he struggles vainly against the man's hold, but it's clear he's barely got the strength to stand, let alone fight. "This is really on you, Jack. If you'd just learned your lesson, it never would've come to this. Now look at all of the blood on your hands."

The warden gestures grandly to the room at a whole, and Jack blanches as his eyes lift to look beyond Crutchie's crumpled form. David finally takes in the back of the room as well and feels acid rise, hot and angry, in his throat. There, laid out in a haphazard line, is a row of bodies; seven of them in total, all of them teenage boys. They all have clearly been abused, skin bruised and bones broken, and it's evident that's what killed most of them.

"Tony!" David shouts although he can't even hear his own voice. Sure enough, third from the left, there's a lean blonde boy that bears a striking resemblance to his friend, although he can't be more than fifteen or sixteen. His skin is gray in death, and there're dark blemishes around his neck in the shape of hands. As David scans down the row, he sees that one of the beaten boys could pass for Elmer's younger brother, behind the swollen mass of a shattered and deformed nose. And another boy, one eye socket empty and gaping, almost looks a little like Ryan, were it not for the blue of his lips.

Jack appears to be beyond screaming, his face bone-white as he lets out a broken, inhuman moan when his eyes coast over the row of bodies. His legs buckle underneath him, and Snyder lets him fall. Jack vomits even though there's nothing in his stomach, sticky trails of bile clinging to his lips. The boy spits, shaking, and when he looks up at Snyder, his face is a blend of horror and rage. "You killed 'em."

"I warned you," Snyder replies, and all hints of humor have slid from his voice, cruel and condescending. Now, above his twisted smirk, his eyes are cold and hard and malicious. He crouches down and sneers at Jack. "I warned you that unless you started showing me some respect, I'd take it out on every single one of your little gutter-rat friends I could find. That," Snyder points to the line of corpses, "that is all on you, Mr. Kelly."

"You killed 'em," Jack snarls. "You _murdered_ 'em. They was just kids, and ya murdered 'em, ya fuckin' bastard!" Snyder backhands him, and Jack's head connects with the brick wall with a loud noise. "They was kids," Jack growls, trying to push himself up again but his arms are shaking. "They was kids, and you killed 'em. Ya ain't gonna get 'way with 'is."

Expression twisted up in fury, Jack spits in Snyder's direction, a gob of bile and blood that splats on the man's polished shoe. Snyder makes a sound like a charging bull, and he stands, kicking Jack hard in the stomach. The boy gags, coughing blood as he struggles to breathe. Then, eyes flashing viciously, Snyder crosses over to where Crutchie is still laying, and he stomps on the boy's twisted leg. Crutchie jolts awake, scream loud even through the knotted rags in his mouth, but it's still not loud enough to mask the sound of broken bones grinding together.

"Stop!" Jack shrieks, making another vain attempt to get up. His eyes are wild and panicked, dragging himself forward a few inches on his elbows. "Leave 'im alone! Stop, _please_!"

Snyder grins. "Now that's more like it," he says. He jabs his toes into Crutchie's broken leg again, prompting a strangled cry from the boy, and then Snyder steps away from him. "It's about time you learn some manners, boy."

"Crutchie?" Jack asks. The crippled boy seems to be catatonic, his gaze vacant and his breathing harsh through his nose. "Jesus, Snyder, you sick bastard."

"Hmm, sounds like the lesson hasn't quite sunk in, has it?" Snyder muses aloud, eyes narrowing dangerously. "It's a good thing I brought someone else to help." At this, Snyder gestures to the far wall where David first noticed two figures guarding a third body.

The two young men are compact and muscular, trading smirks as they crack their knuckles. Behind them on the floor, the third person is slumped, hands and bare feet bound with a canvas bag over their head. They are shifting restlessly, making muffled noises of protest. The two guards grab the bound figure's arms and haul them upright. It's another boy, David knows that much, tall and thin and wearing a stained undershirt and torn trousers.

"Honestly, these boys are more his fault than yours," Snyder says, prowling towards the struggling person. "Thought he'd come running as soon as the word got out you were here. So much for you two being thick as thieves. Still, I know how much you've been dying to see your old pal again."

There's a blend of recognition and terror growing on Jack's face, but it's not enough warning to prepare David for the moment when Snyder rips the bag off the bound boy's head. The wave of vertigo that hits David is nauseating, infinitely worse than any other he's experienced through the night. David doesn't need to hear Jack's breathless whisper to know who this is, because the face he's staring at is _his own_.

"Davey."

It's dizzying, and David's brain feels like he's being torn apart at the seams, his consciousness stretched between two entities at once. He's still hovering in the corner of the room, watching, but at the same time, he can _feel_ Davey. Those vague pains and chills in the background surge to the surface again, and he realizes that's where they've been coming from all this time. He can feel the gnawing hunger, and the press of cold iron on bruised wrists, and the sting of eyes unused to light. The cloying taste of blood and sweat is heavy on his tongue where the knot of the gag is wedged securely behind his teeth.

"It wasn't easy to find him," Snyder says, leering. "Your pal's better at hiding than I expected for a schoolboy." The boy thrashes angrily against the grip of the two goons - _Delanceys_ , Davey's memories supply with an undercurrent of bitter rage, _Oscar and Morris_ \- but he's weak. David can feel the weight of exhaustion and hunger dragging him down.

It's an out-of-body experience, looking at this boy's face that's so like his. Davey is much younger, around sixteen, but his features are familiar; the sharp line of cheek and jaw, the prominent hook of a Roman nose, the dark hair that curls just a little at the tips. There are differences - David's eyes are more green than hazel, his lips fuller, and his chin slightly squarer - but it's still so much like looking at his teenage self.

"Leave 'im alone," Jack says, harsh and desperate. "He got nothin' ta' do with 'is."

David sees through Davey's eyes, feels the way his heart turns over when they land on Jack. His insides twist, a hurricane of different emotions assailing him; pain and betrayal and fear and pity and horror and, on top of it all, a sweeping warmth of affection for the boy looking up at him with those big brown eyes. He fights against the goons again, wanting to get closer, to see for himself that Jack's real and here and alive, but they're so much stronger.

"No, I think he's got _everything_ to do with this," Snyder replies. Davey recoils at the acrid heat of the man's breath against his face, his snakelike smile too close. "You just refused to learn, Jack. The famous Jack Kelly, who listens to no one. No one, that is, except his little partner-in-crime." David's stomach plummets as he starts to understand where this is going. "I knew if I was going to put you in your place, I'd need a little help. It took a lot to draw him out of hiding, though. I thought he'd show his face when the word got out about you, but he didn't. Seems he took your betrayal a little hard, didn't you, Davey-boy?"

Davey growls through the gag and jerks his head away when the warden grabs him by the chin. Anger. Anger and horror and disgust are battling for dominance in his chest, looking up into the man's face. This man threatened his family, drove him away from home. This man arrested Crutchie, beat him and tortured him for months. And Jack too, God, what has he done to Jack to make him look so frail? And he killed their friends, so many of the newsies; young kids with their whole lives ahead, and now they're gone, discarded on the ground like yesterday's trash.

"Shame he doesn't know that you did it to help him, isn't it, Jack?" Snyder asks, grinning wickedly. Davey's brow furrows and his eyes dart to Jack questioningly. "Ah, see, there it is. Yes, Davey, that's Jack's little secret: that he turned on your union to keep _you_ out of jail."

Jack's eyes well with regret as he gazes up at Davey. "Pulitzer was gonna have ya 'rrested, you and Les," he says, voice cracking. Pain pulses in Davey's chest as the realization sets in, as the jagged edges of his memories suddenly smooth into startling clarity. He always wanted to believe there was more to Jack's change of heart than the money. Jack's lips quiver, reading the shift in his eyes. "S'only reason I took the deal. Said if I turned scab, they'd let Crutchie go and they'd leave ya 'lone, 'cept Snyder's a dirty fuckin' _liar_."

The warden wheels around and kicks Jack's arms out from beneath him, prompting a yelp as his wrist twists under his weight. "Since he wasn't coming for you, I knew I'd have to go after someone our dear Davey still cared about. Took a few mysterious disappearances before our little strike leader here finally resurfaced," Snyder says. "So really, as I said, he's more to blame for your friends than you are."

"Sonuvabitch!" Jack yells, echoing Davey's thoughts. Jack shoves up onto his knees, swaying but furious. "Let 'im go. Ya can't hurt Dave. He ain't like me; he got folks."

"Yes, his dear parents have been wondering where he's been," Snyder says. "Haven't seen their boy in so long. First, he takes up with criminals, destroying property and fighting with the police. Then he takes off without a word, vanishes for months. The poor Jacobs' are so worried he's gotten into trouble; they've already resigned themselves to the idea he might be dead."

"Dontcha touch 'im, Snyder, please," Jack says. "Whateva ya got with me, fine, but leave 'im outta it."

Snyder leers dangerously. "That's what I thought," he says. He crosses over and seizes a fistful of Jack's hair, craning his head back sharply. "Who knew, Jack Kelly's been philandering his way around the city, and all this time, he's really a filthy _queer_." The word cuts through the air like thunder, the contempt beneath it striking against Davey like a physical blow. At the same time, his heart seizes as Jack meets his eyes for a split second, fear and hope and a love that Davey never dared to dream of in his gaze.

Snyder kicks Jack hard in the stomach, making him double over coughing again, and then turns back to Davey. "Really, killing you both will be a mercy," Snyder says. "You know what happens when men get arrested for being fairies? It's not a good time once the other prisoners find out."

The punch lands square in the center of his ribs and sucks all of the air from Davey's lungs. He gasps for breath, fighting to draw it through the dirty rag in his mouth, and his head spins. A second swing catches him in the jaw, knocking his head to the side. Before he can recover, a third blow lands in his stomach and Davey's legs give out under him. The two goons drop his arms, letting him fall to a heap on the cold dirt floor.

"Davey!" Jack calls out frantically. "Jesus Christ, _stop_!"

"I think it's time," Snyder kicks Davey's shoulder, rolling him roughly onto his back, "that you finally learned your lesson, Mr. Kelly." He kneels down, one knee pressing on Davey's chest to pin him in place, and he holds out a hand. Morris Delancey pulls a knife from his pocket and sets it in the warden's outstretched palm.

Panic seizes hold, and David is drowning in the wave of overwhelming sensations coming from the boy. Davey tries to slide out from beneath Snyder's knee, but the man pushes down harder, and _he can't breathe - the knife is coming closer - all he can see is Snyder's smile reflected off the blade - the hammering of his heart drowns out everything else but the frantic beat -_

With a yell, Jack throws himself bodily into the warden, knocking him aside. Davey's head is reeling, trying to find his breath, and he can hear the sounds of a scuffle. Jack and Snyder and Oscar and Morris are all yelling at once, fists swinging. David can see them sprawled on the stones, Jack trying to force Snyder's hands away while Oscar and Morris attempt to pull him off the warden. And then, all at once, everyone stops.

" _My God_."

Morris is clutching a fistful of Jack's shirt, and the boy is slouched where he landed when Delancey pulled him off. Oscar is stopped halfway in picking himself up from where he tripped over a body. Davey has rolled onto his side, eyes wide. Between them all, Snyder is on his back on the ground, the hilt of the knife protruding from his chest. The warden sputters, taking three wet, shaky breathes, and blood is dark on his lips. Then he crumples like a puppet with the strings cut and his eyes roll up in his head.

Jack pales, shaking. Oscar crouches and presses his fingers to the side of Snyder's neck. "He's dead," the younger Delancey says breathlessly. His gaze darts to Jack. "You killed him."

"Was an accident," Jack says. "I didn't mean - He was gonna kill Davey, he-" Morris silences him with a punch to the jaw.

"The hell are we s'posed to do?" Morris asks Oscar. "Shit, we gotta get rid of 'em. Can't have no one findin' this. What we gonna do?"

"We didn't do it," Oscar snaps. "Was him."

"And ya think he ain't gonna tell folks 'bout the rest'a this?" Morris hisses frantically. "No, gotta get rid of 'em _all_ somehow."

As the brothers argue over the warden's corpse, Jack crawls awkwardly across the floor toward Davey. His eyes are damp as he scans the other boy's face wildly, and he props his weight on one elbow to cradle Davey's cheek in a blood-spotted hand. "Jesus, Davey, you okay?" Jack asks, and his voice cracks. "Fuck. I'mma getcha outta here, promise. M'sorry. Youse gonna be okay. I'mma make sure youse okay."

Davey wants to respond, wants to reassure him, but he can't get the gag off. He tugs at the fabric desperately, but the knot is too tight. His heart is pounding, and he knows that he's running out of time; the part of him that's _Davey_ scared that this might be his only chance to say it and the half of him that's _David_ knowing that this story has no good ending.

Then Oscar loops an arm around Jack's throat and hauls him bodily away. Morris crouches down, and the bloodstained knife is slick in his hand. David immediately knows what's coming, feels as Davey comes to the same conclusion with hopeless resignation. Davey turns his head away, seeking out Jack's face. Their eyes meet, and Davey tries to convey everything he can't say - that he forgives Jack, that he's sorry, that he wishes they had more time, that he feels the same way Jack does.

The pain that lances through David's abdomen when Morris stabs the boy, familiar as it is by now, is so much worse than he ever imagined. Davey chokes, his muscles rebelling and spasming at the foreign intrusion. David can see the blood seeping out into the boy's shirt, can see Jack thrashing desperately to get free as Oscar drags him toward the stairs by the arm still around his neck. Morris tugs the knife free and leaves Davey to bleed out; he walks over to where Crutchie's still unmoving and, hands trembling, slits his throat.

Jack's strangled shouts are ringing in David's ears, his vision blurring and warping around him like a kaleidoscope. The next thing he's aware of, he's in the warden's office again, watching Oscar drag Jack, clawing and kicking like a wild animal, up through a hatch in the bottom of the closet. Oscar throws him down on the ground in front of the desk, then stomps on Jack's chest, effectively cutting off his furious threats. As Jack curls on his side, wheezing, Oscar hurries back down the stairs.

"Jack?" David asks, and he's relieved to find he can move now, even though he can still feel the waves of pain from Davey and a growing chill as the blood leaves his body. He kneels down in front of the boy, and Jack's openly crying when he looks up at him. "Jack, I-" David doesn't know what to do, what to say in this situation. He wants to be practical, approach this the way he usually would and find the facts, but he can still feel Davey _so strongly_ , can feel his fear and surrender and the burgeoning golden glow of first love for this boy.

David reaches out and brushes his fingertips over Jack's cheek, and for the first time, he can feel it. His skin tingles, the vague sensation of a limb falling asleep. Jack moans and turns his cheek into the contact with a hitch in his breathing. In the background, David notes Oscar and Morris Delancey reappearing, heaving the warden's corpse between them, and they deposit Snyder's body on the other side of the desk.

Jack reaches up and settles his hand over the one David's resting on his cheek, making the nerves prickle and numb more. "M'sorry," Jack mumbles, voice slurred. "M'sorry, Davey. I tried."

"I know, I know you did," David says. "But there was nothing you could do. You can't stop something that's already happened. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Morris is moving around the room, breaking the lamps on the walls and dumping the lantern oil onto the furniture and rug and both bodies. At the same time, Oscar kneels next to Jack with the knife in hand. "Ain't even sorry 'bout this," the Delancey hisses before he drives the blade through Jack's ribs.

While Jack is choking, blood ribboning from the wound, Oscar uses the keys from the warden's belt to take off the handcuffs. He tosses them and the knife into the cellar, then slides the heavy stone hatch back into place. "Let's go," Morris says, nodding toward the door.

Oscar pulls out a match and strikes it; the moment hangs, suspended in time, and then the flame drops.

The world is instantly a ring of fire, a raging inferno that surrounds them until it's just David and Jack alone in the middle. It's too fast, and there's no heat, David knows it's not real, but he can't stop his flinch. Immediately, he turns his attention back to Jack. "I'm sorry, I don't - I don't know how to help."

Jack smiles. "S'just nice youse here," he says, pressing David's hand harder into his cheek.

"I can't stop it. I don't know how to stop it," David says.

"Told ya so," Jack responds, his grin slightly teasing. "Ya gotta go. Ya gotta be safe."

"I'm not leaving you," David counters, shaking his head. His muscles protest, the knife wound in his stomach aching at the movement, but he cradles Jack against his body, trying to soothe the boy. "I don't want you to die alone."

Jack chuckles and blood spots his lips. "I a'ready done that," he says. "Done that lots'a times now." He surveys David's face thoughtfully. "Davey, is he-?"

David swallows. "He's not in pain anymore," he says because Davey's mind has gone quiet despite the lingering pain and cold. He thinks the boy must be unconscious, slipping into the darkness that precedes death.

"S'good," Jack says, smiling even as his voice breaks. "Can ya make sure he gets took care of? All the fellas, Davey and Crutch and them. Give 'em a proper rest and all, so they ain't gotta be here no more? Can't stand thinkin' of 'em bein' left down there foreva."

"Of course," David promises, nodding. The taste of copper's only gotten worse, blood syrupy in his mouth, and the knife wound is burning through him. Fire is inching ever closer, the circle tightening around them like a noose. "Jack, please, I-"

"Dave," Jack interrupts, shaking his head. He threads their fingers together on his cheek, clinging to him even as his strength starts to leave him, hand trembling and breath catching. "I know you ain't _my_ Davey, but thanks for bein' here. S'nice not bein' alone this time."

David chokes on a sob but smiles, smoothing Jack's hair back from his face with his free hand. "He cared about you too," he says because he knows that with absolute certainty. "Davey. I felt it. He wanted to be with you too. He loved you, Jack."

And it's like a lifetime of pain and loss vanish from Jack's eyes all at once, turning them vibrant and hopeful. With a grin, his eyes drift shut, and his body goes slack in David's arms. "Jack?" David says frantically, cupping the boy's face in his palm. "Jack, no, please." Clutching the boy's body to his chest, David chokes on his own blood as the world dissolves into flame. 

* * *

It's white, nothing but white now.

He has other memories, or at least he thinks they're memories. David remembers the chaos of noise and motion and colors that make no sense. Everything too loud, too close. Air forced into his lungs, lights blinding him, voices and bodies pressing in around him. He remembers not being able to move, trapped and thrashing, and it blurs together with memories of cold iron handcuffs and rope chafing his ankles and his mouth filled with the taste of sweat and blood. David thinks he remembers screaming, but he's not sure whether that part's real. 

Actually, honestly, he's not sure if any of it's real.

All of that's gone now, replaced by a hazy blur that softens the edges of everything. His muscles feel loose and pliant, but they aren't bound. ( _Of course not, why would he be tied up, that makes no sense._ ) There's a faint disjointed sensation in the back of his head, and it itches, but his arms are too heavy to lift. It takes him a minute longer to realize his eyes are still closed, and he gingerly pries them open, only to wince and recoil at the light.

There's a sudden intake of breath at his elbow, and a hand curls over the top of his. "Davey? You awake?"

"Saz?" David murmurs blearily, trying to piece his scattered thoughts back together.

"Yeah, it's me," Sarah responds. Her voice is slightly rough and weary, but there's nothing but relief in her tone. "Hey, how're you feeling?"

"Fuzzy," David answers, brow furrowing in confusion. Sarah huffs a small laugh. Screwing his eyes up, David squints through his lashes. It's still bright, but he can see enough to pick out her figure silhouetted against the burning whiteness. "What happened?"

"You had a seizure," says Sarah. "One sec, I'm supposed to grab the doctor now you're awake." He lazily follows the dark smudge of her outline as it crosses the foot of his bed and opens a door. David blinks several times, and his vision slowly clears, his eyes adjusting to the light. The room around him comes into focus; the smooth white walls, a large window that's shielded by utilitarian blinds, an array of monitors and tubes and wires around the head of the bed where he's lying. A hospital room.

"Good morning, Mr. Jacobs," greets a man in scrubs from the door, giving David a warm smile as he steps up next to the bed. Sarah follows him in, moving back around to the plastic visitor's chair on his other side. "Welcome back. My name's Dr. DaSilva."

"What happened?" David asks, looking up at the doctor. "My head feels weird."

Dr. DaSilva nods, grabbing the clipboard from the foot of the bed to make a quick annotation. "We'll give you another dose of morphine once I do a quick check-up, okay?" the doctor says. "We just want to make sure you're all right first."

"What happened?" David repeats in frustration. He darts a glance at Sarah. "I had a seizure?"

"You did," Dr. DaSilva agrees, drawing David's focus back to him. "A pretty bad one, too. Your sister said you'd had no history of epilepsy or seizures, so we did an MRI when you got here, just in case, and a good thing we did." He pulls a sheaf of x-ray paper from a folder and slides it up onto the wall display. When he flicks the light on, David can see it's an image of an egg-shaped blue and gray object. It takes him an embarrassing second longer to realize it's a top-down view of a brain.

"Can you see this spot here?" the doctor asks, circling a bright white blob near the bottom. "That sneaky little stowaway is a brain tumor."

David's chest seizes up as the implication hits him. "Cancer?"

"No, no, just a tumor," Dr. DaSilva assures him quickly. "Brain tumors can develop completely independent of cancer. This specific one is called a meningioma, meaning it was in the lining of your brain, and it was pressing in on your left occipital lobe. It was still relatively small, but since it was malignant and your symptoms came on so fast, we went ahead and removed it before it could spread. We're running a biopsy to make sure it's not metastatic, but you should be in the clear now."

"So it's gone?" David asks, struggling to keep up although his thoughts still feel syrupy and slow.

The doctor grins and nods. "All gone," he says. "Complete removal. And it's a good thing we caught it when we did. These things are generally hard to diagnose until they start causing serious symptoms, and if this thing had been able to spread to other parts of your brain, you would be in a lot worse shape after. Not to mention, the odds of getting all of it removed shrink the bigger the tumor gets, which also increases the chances of reoccurrence."

"How could I have a brain tumor and not know?" David asks incredulously.

"With this type of tumor, most people don't even develop symptoms; they can go their whole lives undiagnosed. Even the ones that do get symptoms, the early stage ones are very easy to mistake for something simple," Dr. DaSilva explains patiently. "The most common symptoms are headaches, dizziness and disorientation, maybe progressing into forgetfulness. With the location of yours, maybe some spots - like little flickers of light or color - in your vision. Sound familiar?"

David frowns, shrugging. "I get migraines sometimes."

Nodding, the doctor comes back to the bed, plucking a penlight from his shirt pocket. "Well, once you're healed up and out of here, those should go away. Although definitely let us know if you get a headache in the next few days. We've got you on corticosteroids to help manage any swelling, but there's always a small risk of edema. I'm going to check your eyes, okay?" He clicks the penlight on and shines it into David's eyes. "Pupils are fully reactive," he concludes approvingly. "Follow my finger with your eyes. Good job. How's your vision? Any blind spots or weird colors?"

"No, everything looks okay," David says, glancing around nervously.

"That's good news," Dr. DaSilva says. "Doesn't sound like you're having any issues with speaking so far. We're going to keep monitoring you for a couple days to make sure no complications develop, but it looks like you're going to bounce back just fine. I'm going to prescribe you some anti-seizure medicine to help prevent any more, just in case, but with a little rest, you should be back to normal in no time."

David nods shallowly, wincing when a small stab of pain blossoms in the back of his skull. "Careful," Sarah warns, cocooning his hand in both of hers. "The back of your head is going to be sore."

"That's where we went through to get the tumor," the doctor says. "It'll be tender for a little while. The upside to this surgery is that it's nearly invisible. Once that little incision heals up and your hair grows back, no one will be any the wiser." He reaches up to one of the IV bags hanging above the bed and adjusts the drip. "For now, though, the best thing for you is lots and lots of sleep."

His head is reeling, trying to process all of the information, but there's a vague fuzziness creeping in now that's making it harder. David blinks slowly and relaxes back into the pillow. "Thanks, Doctor," he says gratefully, because all of his confusion aside, he's gotten the impression this guy might've saved his life.

"Of course," Dr. DaSilva says, smiling. "That's my job. And yours, for right now, is to get better. I'll be back to check on you later, okay?" He pats David's shoulder and then glances across to Sarah. "If he needs anything, hit the call button." Then, with one last nod to them both, the doctor walks out of the room.

"Sarah?" David asks, tipping his head to be able to look at her. She slides her chair closer, so she's in his line of sight. Behind her smile, she's clearly exhausted, shadows beneath her eyes and her hair swept back in a loose tail. "It wasn't - we were working?" he says, crawling backward through his memories to find something that makes sense.

"I don't know exactly what happened," Sarah admits, tracing her thumb in a steady rhythm across the back of his wrist. "It was so chaotic, so much happening all at once. One second you were fine, then you just collapsed and started seizing. Your nose was bleeding so much, and even after you stop seizing, you wouldn't wake up."

"Tony?" David asks when that memory breaks through the fog. He can hear echoes of desperate gasping, coupled with a pale neck wreathed in bruises. Except that's not right; there were no hands on Tony's throat, no one squeezing the air from his lungs. Then why can he picture it so clearly?

"He's fine," Sarah says reassuringly. "Whatever was happening to him stopped as soon as you started seizing. He was back to normal by the time the EMTs showed up. Apparently even managed to flirt his way into one of the EMTs' number." She shakes her head fondly. "Officially, they ruled it an asthma attack. Too much running around in the dusty air for a smoker. On the plus side, I think it might've finally given him the motivation to really  _quit_ smoking this time."

"And Elmer? And Ryan?" David presses, his head spinning with bruised flesh and blued lips. "They-"

"The cops think there might've been a gas leak or something in the building," Sarah says, but there's a wry slant to her lips that conveys her opinion on that conclusion. "They said they were gonna check for hazardous gases. That that's why everyone was feeling so sick, and why you all passed out. But they're both completely fine now. Elmer broke his nose when he fell, but that's the worst of it. They've all been driving the poor nurses in the waiting room up the walls because they refuse to leave until they can see you. The doctor said if you are doing fine after twenty-four hours they'll move you out of ICU, so you'll be able to see them then."

David frowns, fighting against the downward pull of the morphine as he claws at the fleeting brushes of memory. A sudden glimpse of brown eyes, lined with age beyond their years but so full of hope and affection, steals his breath. "Jack."

It's not a question, but Sarah answers anyway. "The doctors said that the tumor could've caused hallucinations," she says, brushing his hair off his forehead. "That you might've been seeing and hearing things because of how it was pressing on the part of your brain that processes images."

"No," David says firmly. "No, he was real. Jack was _real_." But even he doubts it now, here in the comforting security of the hospital room with the blur of medication slanting everything. He feels so removed from the terror of the juvenile prison here, the flickers of memory distant as dreams beneath the light of day.

Except he remembers the crushing weight of emotion, the overwhelming agony of first love snuffed out before it could be realized. He's never felt anything like that before, has nothing in his own life to even _compare_ to that feeling. He couldn't have imagined that, could he? "It was real," David repeats insistently. "I felt it. I was-" He pauses, a tangled knot of memories nudging against his thoughts. "I was there, I think."

Sarah touches his cheek softly. "Dave?" she prompts. "I believe you. If you say it's real, I believe you, okay?"

David furrows his brow, chasing after the glimpse of Jack and Davey. "He didn't do it," he says, frowning. "He was framed. Was an accident. And they - they killed him to hide it. He - he-" David growls in frustration, the words he's looking for escaping him. "The cellar," he says finally. When he opens his eyes again, Sarah's looking at him questioningly. "We - we have to find them. They're in the cellar."

"There is no cellar," Sarah responds in confusion. "Who are we finding, Dave?"

"Warden's office," David says, shaking his head. "Under the closet." He groans, struggling to fight back against the exhaustion tugging him down. It makes his head pound, trying to keep hold of the memories as the morphine gnaws at the edges of his consciousness. "We gotta - _I promised_. We gotta find 'em."

"Okay, we'll find them," Sarah says soothingly. "We will. But right now, you need to rest and get better, okay? I need you to get better."

David hums, eyes fluttering shut. The lure of sleep is too hard to shake off now, and he exhales slowly. Tipping his head sideways so he's facing Sarah, even though his eyes are closed, he mumbles, "Can you stay?"

"Of course," Sarah assures him. Her fingers are soft and comforting as she brushes his fringe aside and adjusts the tube beneath his nose that's providing a steady puff of cool air. "It'll take more than that ginger doctor to scare me off." Huffing a laugh, David grins and squeezes her fingers to acknowledge the joke. "Get some sleep, Davey. I'll be here when you wake up."

Letting his muscles go loose, David focuses his attention on the sweep of a thumb across the back of his wrist, as fixed as a metronome. It gives him something to anchor himself to when the jumble of fragmented memories nip at his edges. He times his breaths to the beat as he drifts off.

* * *

_"At the end of the day, I still don't know if what I saw in the Refuge was real or not. The doctors all say that it was most likely hallucinations; that my brain was creating stories from the information I had been researching so obsessively for days beforehand. It makes sense, and the logical part of me wants to believe it, but at the same time, it felt so real._

_"All I do know, honestly, is that whether he was real or not, the ghost of Refuge Juvenile Prison saved my life."_

David reaches forward to pause the video playing on his laptop, grimacing. On the screen, his face is frozen in an awkward, uncertain smile. They recorded the closing interview for the episode his first day home from the hospital when the doctor had released him into Sarah's vigilant care, just over two weeks after the emergency brain surgery. So he'd moved from sleeping eighteen hours a day in the hospital bed to sleeping eighteen hours a day on her sinfully comfy living room sofa, which is precisely where the interview was filmed.

He can't shake the strange sensation of looking at himself on the screen like this. In the over-large hoodie he favored because it was easy to get on and off, and with the silly knit beanie the crew'd given him to help cover the shaved patch on the back of his skull where they'd drilled in for the tumor, he looks years younger than his usual self. This face on the screen doesn't look like the David he's used to seeing in the mirror. This face looks like the one that keeps cropping up in shadowy corners of his dreams, the one that doesn't actually belong to _him_.

Propping his elbows on his knees, David clicks over to the open web browser window. The local news site is still pulled up, a front-page headline from the beginning of November dominating the window.

_**Ghost-Hunters Unearth Century Old Serial Killings** _

_While filming an episode for their upcoming season, the cast and crew of the viral paranormal investigations web series_ Beyond Belief _stumbled across a scandal so much bigger than anyone could've expected. The story behind the infamous Refuge Juvenile Home is already the stuff of local urban legend; a juvenile prison from before the turn of the century, the institution was shut down after a young inmate allegedly snapped and started a fire, killing himself, the jail warden, and several other unfortunate juveniles._

_However, the story spirals further into the realm of disbelief with what was recently located on scene. Acting on a tip from the film crew, NYPD discovered a hitherto unknown cellar beneath the office of the warden. The partially-collapsed vault, according to official reports, contained nine skeletons that showed visible signs of damage. While it is unconfirmed at this time whether the damage occurred prior to death, the forensics teams have confirmed that the skeletons have all been dated back to the late 1800s, before the prison's closure, and all appear to be teenage boys. "While we can't know for sure, and there is no remaining documentation to confirm, it's highly likely that they were inmates," stated Benjamin Davenport, an NYPD forensic scientist._

_The Refuge Juvenile Home has always been surrounded by mystery, dogged by rumors of child abuse and neglect, and this latest discovery casts those stories into a new light. Police have opened an investigation, although they have acknowledged that it is unlikely that they will find conclusive evidence. "The unfortunate reality is that in a place like that, most of those kids went undocumented," said NYPD homicide detective Shawn Conlon. "Most of them were orphans or homeless, and finding identities is going to be practically impossible, especially with the hundred-year time-lapse." Detective Conlon went on to add that NYPD is committed to making sure that these boys are given the closure they deserve._

_When asked for comment, co-creator and lead investigator of_ Beyond Belief _Sarah Jacobs had this to say: "Honestly, our team is mostly concerned with making sure that these boys get proper burials so they can finally rest." She also hinted that the crew had their own theory about the identities of the boys and how they came to meet their ends in that sealed prison cellar, but that it was something "folks will just have to tune in for."_

 _The new season of_ Beyond Belief _begins airing exclusively on streaming site Carry The Banner on January 14th._

There are three photos included along with the article; a promotional cast photo from the show, a single exterior shot of the Refuge, and a photo provided by the police CSI that shows a row of browned skeletons laid out in a row on a polished countertop. David stares at the last one, something in his chest twisting uncomfortably.

He wanted to dismiss the memories as hallucinations, accept the doctor's explanations and move on with his life because that made so much more sense than his reality. Then the police had arrived in his hospital room to inform him that his tip turned up not only the cellar but the remains of nine kids. Nine teenage boys half buried in rubble and showing signs of multiple compound bone breaks. The police said they won't be able to ID them, although the forensics team is going to do facial reconstruction anyway, just in case, but David knows who they are.

Davey Jacobs, Crutchie, and the seven Manhattan newsboys killed to make a point.

Flipping open a manila folder on the coffee table, David pulls out the photocopy of the ancient New York Sun article. Beneath a headline of **_Newsies Stop the World_** \- and the byline of Katherine Plumber, which was another surprise to them all - there's a large photograph of a cluster of young boys. It's blurry and indistinct, faded by time and from being copied, but his eyes dart immediately to one face.

Fist raised in the air, Davey Jacobs stands in the middle of the group, wearing a fierce, triumphant grin. And there, at his side and wearing a mirrored smile, is union leader Jack Kelly.

David brushes his fingers over the worn photograph, still struggling to connect his realities. What happened at the Refuge feels like a different life, a different world. Then Kat brought in this printout and turned his world on its head because there, in black and white, is the proof that these boys from his memories actually _lived_. That a hundred and nineteen years ago, a boy named Davey Jacobs who bears a striking resemblance to him helped form the nation's first newsboy union.

There was little else they managed to find about Davey Jacobs when they searched. A small piece in The World listed him as an accomplice in the destruction of private property and decried the newsboy union as criminals. Another article a year later - by the same Katherine Plumber who wrote the first strike piece - reflected on the strike, checking in with some of the current newsboys about the settlement they eventually made with Pulitzer and questioning what had happened to the union leaders. The common consensus was that Jack had fled New York; no one, not even his family, could say where Davey went.

The scrape of keys in the front door pulls David from his thoughts. As he tucks the article back into the case folder, Sarah lets herself into the apartment and smiles. "Hey you," she greets. "Hard at work? You do know you're still supposed to be taking it easy, right?"

David chuckles. "It's nothing, just reviewing some stuff. Was watching the final cut of the episode."

"Oh yeah?" Sarah tosses her purse unceremoniously on the floor and comes over to flop onto the couch beside him. "What d'you think?"

"It's good," he admits. "I'm grateful Kat elected not to include too much of the footage of me losing my shit." Sarah snorts. Since Tony was following David for most of the night, there is an alarming amount of film showing David staring vacantly at nothing. They used little clips of it, of course, but in small chunks that break down the creepy factor. She also cut out most of his initial nervous breakdown; thankfully, no footage of his seizure exists, since their flashlights bleached out the night-vision cam and Tony was rather preoccupied with not suffocating at the time. "No, really though, she did a great job. It came together really well."

"So you're okay with it?" Sarah asks. David raises an eyebrow; she always has them all watch the episodes when they're finalized, but she's never asked permission to go ahead with something before. "Don't give me that look," she counters. "I know how personally this whole thing hit you, even excluding the tumor thing. And even though it'd kill me to do it, if you said right now that you wanted us to scrap the whole episode, I would."

David can't mask his shock at this, twisting sideways on the sofa cushion to stare at her in awe. "You wouldn't," he says, shaking his head. "Christ, what're you thinking? Even if I wasn't okay with it, those boys _deserve_ this. They deserve to have the world know what happened to them, and know what that place really was."

"Sure," says Sarah, "and I totally agree. But _you_ are my brother, and that takes precedence."

Something warm swells in David's chest, a rush of affection for his sister that wraps around him like a blanket. They've always gotten along, but they never used to be very close, at least not since they were little kids. He's been living with her since being released from the hospital - because the doctor's orders were that he be watched for any complications, which she took very seriously - and it's been surprisingly nice to have her with him through his recovery. "Well, as your brother, I appreciate the gesture," he says. "But as your employee, I think it would be a crime not to air the episode."

"Glad to hear it," says Sarah, grinning. She reaches out and tugs at the brim of the beanie he's still wearing - it's been weeks, and his hair's mostly grown back, but he's still weirdly conscious about the scar beneath it. Besides, it's sort of becoming a habit, and now that it's winter, he has the excuse of New York's cold weather.

"Oh, I meant to ask," David says as he swats her hand away. "You guys kept in that thing Elmer said about 'red thread.' I never understood what that meant, but you all seemed to get it. Did I miss something?"

Sarah's eyes go wide. "You've never heard of that?" she asks curiously. He shakes his head. "It's this old Chinese legend, I guess Elmer's parents used to tell him about it when he was a kid. They say that the gods tied an invisible red string around the ankle of two people that will bind them together forever and that no matter what comes between them, distance or life or even time, they will always be able to follow that string back to each other. It's sort of like a soulmates concept, although it doesn't always have to be, like, a romantic thing. Just that people who are meant to know each other will always find each other somehow."

Considering that, David nods slowly. "That explains a lot," he says. "So that's what he was saying, was that he thinks I'm connected to Jack by one of those threads?"

"Basically, yeah," Sarah agrees. "And, I mean," she nudges the case folder with her foot meaningfully, "knowing what we do about the other Davey now, it sort of makes sense, in a way."

"Yeah, I guess so," David admits. "But wait, if the string is invisible, how do they know it's red?"

Sarah blinks and then crumples against his shoulder in a fit of giggles. "That is such a _you_ question," she says, shaking her head fondly. "Tell the boy he's some sort of reincarnation and has a cosmic soulmate from a century ago, and he asks about the color of the stupid magic string. It's good to know some things never change." David grins unrepentantly, shrugging. Sarah wipes her eyes and lets out a steadying breath. "And you, you're really okay, right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, why?" David asks, brow furrowing.

Sarah laughs, the sound oddly tired. "You've kind of had a wild couple of months, all things considered," she replies pointedly. "How's your hand?"

David flexes his right hand experimentally. He's been relatively lucky as far as side effects of the brain tumor go, escaping without much in the way of the speech and memory issues that are common. He forgets things or words sometimes, but it's been manageable (if annoying) so far. The biggest problem he's had is some weakness and deadened nerves in his right side, mostly in his hand. "Getting better," he says. Holding his hand out so she can see, he touches his thumb to each of his fingertips in the dexterity exercise assigned by his physical therapist.

"Hey, look at you go," Sarah says approvingly. "You're getting faster at that."

"Good thing I do everything on computers nowadays," David says with a chuckle, dropping his hand. "Still not great at holding a pen yet."

Squeezing his forearm reassuringly, Sarah smiles. "Yeah, well you didn't use to be able to hold _anything_ , so progress," she reminds him. She was there with him in the beginning when he fought to even make his fingers obey his commands. She comforted him through the frustration and hopelessness when he thought he might never be able to function normally again; when he realized how many little movements he used to take for granted that were now an effort. "Just so long as you don't touch my favorite coffee mug, we'll make it out okay."

"It was _one_ time," David protests goodnaturedly.

Sarah snickers. "I know, and it's fine, it was just the stupid Halloween one Dad got me," she says, waving a hand dismissively. She leans against his side, her hand still resting comfortingly on his arm. "So I wanted to talk to you about something."

"That's ominous," David notes, brow furrowed.

"Don't be dramatic," Sarah chides with a huff. "No, it's just - I know that the show was never your endgame for a job. And with everything that's happened," she slides her hand down to cover his, "the team and I just wanted you to know that if you don't come back for the next season, we'll support you."

David frowns. "Are you firing me?"

"Jesus, no, of course not," Sarah says, shooting him an indignant look. "But we all know you want to be a real journalist. I've always known you'd leave the show one day to go work at CNN or something, my genius baby brother-"

"Seventeen minutes!"

"-taking on the world," she finishes with a sly smile. "We've still got another couple weeks before we'll start filming for next season, so you don't have to decide right away, of course. We just thought that with all that happened, you might want to move on. And if you do, just know that we all support you, okay?"

Humming thoughtfully, David nods and sits back into the cushions. "I dunno, I've thought about it," he admits. "I still wanna write, I do. I've always wanted to travel the world and write stories that'll make a difference, you know?" His gaze drops to the laptop screen, where the article is still opened. "Then I think about those kids that might've stayed buried and forgotten in that cellar for ages if not for us, that no one would ever have known what happened to them. And I realize that this work can make a difference, too. Sure, the people we helped aren't alive to appreciate it, but we found some type of justice, or at least _closure_ , for those boys. And that feels good too."

"Wow, who are you and what've you done with my brother?" Sarah asks teasingly. David laughs and elbows her. "Well, as long as you want it, the job's still yours."

"Thanks," David says, grinning. "Actually, while we're on the subject, I had an idea I wanted to run by you. I was thinking, since the show's picking up a real following and all, maybe we should really redo the home site, amp up our online presence - like maybe with a blog? I could write up sort of case reports for the episodes, get all the facts out there. And we could post little videos too, like behind-the-scenes stuff, loop our social media feeds into it, too. It'd help draw more views to the site."

Sarah's eyes brighten eagerly. "Ooh, I like that," she says. "Kat was talking about something like that a while back, but that was back when there was just the three of us, and we were all too busy to maintain it. But that'd be good, and you could publish those awesome case breakdowns you write for the show. And then whenever you do decide to leave and be a writer, you can use that as like, a portfolio piece."

Laughing, David squeezes her hand, something incredibly warm and bright growing in his chest. "Well, that might be a while off," he allows. "Someone's got to keep an eye on Tony." Sarah snorts. "Besides, realistically, I think my doctor might have some words against me traveling to dangerous countries to write stories while I'm still recovering from brain surgery."

Sarah scoffs. "Yet he has no problem with you cruising around the country in our ghetto van to chase ghosts," she retorts dryly.

And with a laugh, David slings his arm over his sister's shoulders affectionately. "Of course not. Ghosts aren't _real_ , after all."

* * *

David ducks into the tiny coffee shop, breathing out a sigh of relief as he feels the rush of air conditioning. It's a welcome escape after the midday desert heat. They were clearly not thinking when they put together the filming schedule for this season since they're currently in New Mexico in the middle of July. David's never been one for the heat, and the pavement outside could boil water.

Wiping his brow on the back of his wrist, David looks up at the chalkboard behind the counter with the menu printed in blocky, multicolored text. He orders an iced coffee and then claims one of the small tables beneath a ceiling fan, pulling out his laptop. The hotel room was too noisy for him to concentrate, Tony and Elmer bickering over something or other, so David had left in search of some peace and quiet. Opening his case files, David starts reviewing his notes and getting his monologue arranged before they have to start filming tonight.

"Hey, I'm sorry to bug you," a voice starts a few minutes later, and David glances up in surprise to find someone standing on the other side of his table. It's a young man, mid-twenties, with short blonde hair and a nervous smile. "I know this is a totally random and weird thing to ask, but are you - you're David Jacobs, right? From _Beyond Belief_?"

David's eyebrows jump toward his hairline. "Uh, yeah," he answers, laughing uncertainly. "You've seen the show?"

The other man beams eagerly and it brightens up his whole face. "My best friend and I are kinda obsessed," he admits. "Like, not in a creepy stalker way, I promise. Just, we've been watching it since the first season. It's actually kinda why we became friends. Wow, it's so cool to meet you. Oh, my name's Charlie, by the way."

"Nice to meet you," David says, shaking the offered hand. "And thanks. I don't really meet fans all that often."

"No way, really? But you guys are, like, famous," Charlie says, eyes wide. "Anyway, I, uh - I don't want to bug you, you looked busy. But, um, are you gonna be hanging around? Wow, that made me sound like a creeper, sorry. I just meant, my best friend's literally on his way here now, we're meeting up for coffee, and I know he'd be super stoked to meet you too. You know, if you don't mind."

David smiles, the other man's infectious enthusiasm putting him at ease. "I'll be around for a bit," he agrees. "We've got a few hours 'til sundown, so I'm just enjoying the air conditioning and free Wi-Fi."

"Oh, you guys filming?" Charlie asks. "I bet you're here for La Posada, huh?"

"Yeah, how'd-?" The chirp of his phone cuts off David's question, and he checks the screen with his left hand (he's become mostly ambidextrous in the wake of the brain tumor). "Sorry," he says, shooting an apologetic grin up at Charlie. "My sister finally realized I left."

Charlie laughs. "No worries, I can let you go if you want."

"No, it's fine, just a sec," David says, opening the group chat for the crew. "I want to hear what you were gonna say. Just lemme check in real quick."

"In that case, you mind if I sit?" Charlie asks, gesturing to the chair across from David. "I'm not great at standing for a long time."

David glances up distractedly and then flushes, embarrassed. "Oh, right, of course," he says. "Yes, please, go ahead." Charlie smiles appreciatively, slipping down into the chair, as David taps back into the group chat.

_> Sarah: anyone know where Dave went?_

_> Tony: he not w u?_

_> David: T & E are noisy so I went to get coffee._

_> David: Ran into a fan of the show. Be back later._

"Sorry about that," David says, setting his phone down. From the corner of his eye, he sees a new text from Sarah appear on the screen.

_> Sarah: ooooh cute?_

Snorting, David swipes the text away before Charlie can see it. Charlie's attention, it seems, isn't on David's phone though because he abruptly asks, "Physio?"

"What?" David replies in confusion. Charlie points toward David's right hand, which is resting on the tabletop, and David pauses in the middle of tapping his thumb along his fingertips. "Oh, yeah, sorry. Weird tic. I don't even notice I'm doing it."

Charlie grins. "Becomes habit after a while, huh?" he says. "Don't worry, I only noticed because that's my job. I'm a medical assistant at a rehab center, so I teach people to do that all the time. That and-" He slides one foot out from beneath the table, tugging his jean leg up a little to reveal a metal prosthesis. "I've been through the whole physio routine myself."

"Wow, yeah, I bet," David says, awed. That explains the comment about not standing for long periods. Licking his lips, he flexes his hand and drops it into his lap. "Uh, anyway, you were saying something about La Posada before my crew interrupted?"

Charlie nods, leaning his elbows onto the edge of the tabletop. "I just figured that's what you guys were here about," he says, shrugging. "We get folks here all the time about it. Even had a crew from Travel Channel here to film, not last summer but the one before. That was cool. It's probably gonna seem super tame compared to most places you guys go, though."

"Oh yeah?" David asks. "What makes you say that?"

There's something fresh and endearing to Charlie, a sense of peace to his smile as he waves a flippant hand. David usually doesn't feel comfortable around strangers, but there's just an energy to this man that feels almost familiar, although he can't say why. "I mean, I've seen you guys crawling around in all those creepy abandoned buildings," the other man says, "but La Posada is a busy hotel, at least for around here, and they turned the old Staab house into a bar. Kinda kills the spooky mood. Nice bar, though."

Laughing, David shakes his head. "You'd be surprised how often that happens," he admits. "People are weirdly drawn to the things they can't explain. Most of the more popular haunted locations are active hotels or museums now."

"Gotta cash in on the creepy, I guess," Charlie says with a grin. "Makes sense."

"Do you know a lot about the history there?" David asks curiously.

"A bit," the other man agrees. "Not an expert or anything, but we looked up a lot of it when we first got hooked on your show and all, 'cause we were curious. The story's not even all that exciting, as far as haunted places go. Or maybe exciting's the wrong word, that's probably a bad thing to say. Just, you know, there wasn't some big sordid murder. Not like over at La Fonda, couple people have died there. A dude even got lynched; it's super freaky."

David laughs again. "You seem to know a lot about the local hauntings."

"Everyone needs a hobby," says Charlie, his smile playful. "Nah, like I said, we were just curious. And I'm not a local or anything, I moved here for college. If you want a real expert, you - oh, hey, speak of the devil." Grinning at someone over David's shoulder, Charlie waves just as the little bell above the shop door rings. "Hey Cowboy, you're never gonna believe who I ran into!"

Curious, David turns in his chair and feels his heart stutter. The man walking across the shop pauses in surprise when their eyes meet. "Holy shit, no way. You're - you're David Jacobs, huh? Dude, this is nuts. Oh, right, sorry, my name's-"

"Jack."

Because it is, David's _sure_ of it. He's older, of course, somewhere in his later twenties, but he'd know that face anywhere. The same squared jaw and prominent cheekbones, although his skin is tinted golden-brown from the sun. The same dark hair, although it's cut more modernly and gelled up in the front. The same large, chocolate-brown eyes, although they're behind a pair of black-framed glasses. It's the same face that's haunted David's memories for months, just slightly _not_.

The man freezes, one hand extended toward David in greeting, and his eyes widen. "Uh, yeah, how'd ya know?" he asks, a pleased smile crossing his lips. Then he glances down and laughs. "Oh, right, the bag."

Confused, David darts a look at the messenger bag slung over the guy's shoulder; it's made of worn canvas, and among hand-painted swirls of color is the name 'Jack' in bold calligraphy. When he lifts his gaze again, Jack is giving him a vaguely bemused look, and David finally realizes he's been staring in silence for way too long now.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," David says, clearing his throat awkwardly. "The bag, like you said." He spots Jack's hand, still held out, and flushes scarlet. "Oh, Jesus, right," he says, shaking Jack's hand and hoping the other man doesn't notice that his palms are sweating. "I'm so sorry. I swear I'm not normally so super awkward."

The smile on Jack's face twists into something a little mischievous. "I've been known to have that effect on people," he teases, and the heat in David's cheeks spreads up into his ears as well. Behind David, Charlie snorts derisively. "Except him, 'cause he's a mutant and immune to my charms."

"More like 'cause I've had to deal with you leaving your socks all over the place for too many years," Charlie rebuts. Jack swipes a hand dismissively, rolling his eyes.

Licking his lips, David rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. "Still, I'm sorry," he says. He's still blushing, something that he thought he grew out of after high school, but he scrambles to reclaim some sense of composure. "I promise I'm not a spaz normally. I don't meet fans of the show often, and I really don't want to come off like a freak. I'm going to blame the heat, okay?"

Jack chuckles. "We could start over if you wanna?" he suggests. Holding out his hand again, he grins and says, "Hi, my name's John Sullivan, but most people just call me Jack."

"Hi, Jack," David replies, slipping his hand into Jack's, which is large and warm and slightly callused as it curls easily around David's slim fingers. David tries not to dwell on how perfectly they fit together because that's a very weird thing to think about someone he's technically just met. "My name's David Jacobs."

In the back of his head, David notes that Jack's smile has softened slightly and that Jack's hand and forearm are speckled with brightly-colored paints. He takes in the holes in the knees of Jack's jeans and the faintest hint of a five o'clock shadow blossoming across his jaw. But mostly he notices the way Jack still hasn't let go of his hand and that those fathomless honey-brown eyes never leave David's.

"Nice to meetcha, Davey."

**Author's Note:**

> Keep in mind that a large number of these things are implied or referenced but not actually described in graphic detail. That said...
> 
> TW: torture, starvation, blood, broken bones, abuse, _so much_ child abuse, isolation, beatings, mind games, murder, murder of children, main character death, illness, cancer, hospitalization, strangulation, seizures, trapped souls, after-effects/recovery of surgery, miscarriage, depression, and one off-screen suicide.
> 
> I think that's all of it...?
> 
> **Side note from the future: Thank you all so much for your incredible response to this story. I wasn't expecting it to get so much attention when I posted it and you guys have completely blown me away with your support. This is one of the things I'm most proud of as far as my writing, and to get the response from you all has done so much for my hope in starting a real writing career. I can never properly explain how much you guys have changed my life. - Artie


End file.
